“I am so good to you,” he declared; “even when you laugh at me I am never angry. I am truly so very good.”
He appeared so well content with himself that they went the whole distance to the Peace Monument before she disturbed his placid introspection. There was a pleasure to her in simply walking beside him in silence; it was a sensation which she had never attempted to analyze, but its existence had become a part of her own.
“Do not let us go home,” he proposed suddenly, when her turning to cross the Luitpoldbrücke recalled him to himself; “let us go somewhere and dine alone together. It is perhaps the last time; Jack returns to-morrow.”
“Oh, let us,” she agreed delightedly; but then her voice altered suddenly for the worse. “No, it’s impossible,” she said sadly, “I can’t go to a café and dine in this short skirt.”
“Why can you not?”
“Can’t you see why?”
He walked off some ways to the side and gazed critically at her skirt.
“Yes,” he said, rejoining her, “I can see why.”
They were halfway across the bridge; he laid his hand on her arm and stopped her.
“Je vous ferai un propos,” he said eagerly; “we will take a car going to the Ostbahnhof, and then we will leave it at a quiet place and seek a quiet café and dine there.”