“Why?”
“Because,” said Marguerite, releasing herself from my arms, and, taking from a great bunch of red camellias a single camellia, she placed it in my buttonhole, “because one can not always carry out agreements the day they are signed.”
“And when shall I see you again?” I said, clasping her in my arms.
“When this camellia changes colour.”
“When will it change colour?”
“To-morrow night between eleven and twelve. Are you satisfied?”
“Need you ask me?”
“Not a word of this either to your friend or to Prudence, or to anybody whatever.”
“I promise.”
“Now, kiss me, and we will go back to the dining-room.”