If she had been told in the morning that she would open that bottle now, and for a stranger, she probably would have resented the idea with scorn.
His disguised weariness still exciting her sympathy, she offered him a chair.
"You will sit down, m'sieu' ?" she asked.

"It is very warm." She did not say: "You look very tired." She instinctively felt that it would suggest the delicate state of his health.
The chair was inviting enough, with its chintz cover and wicker seat, but he would never admit fatigue.

He threw his leg half jauntily over the end of the table and said: "No--no, thanks; I'd rather not sit." His forehead was dripping with perspiration.

He took out his handkerchief and dried it.

His eyes were a little heavy, but his complexion was a delicate and unnatural pink and white-like a piece of fine porcelain.