‘I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t. I’ve been in Belgium and Holland. Then I went to Paris. And now—you see me.’
‘I’m going to Mentone,’ I said. ‘I had thought of Monte Carlo first, but I changed my mind. Where are you going to?’
‘Mentone,’ he said.
We talked in hard, strained tones, avoiding each other’s eyes. A string of people passed along the car on their way to dinner. I withdrew into my compartment, and Frank flattened himself against a window.
‘Come in here a minute,’ I said, when they were gone.
He entered the compartment and sat down opposite to me and lifted his hand, perhaps unconsciously, to pull the door to.
‘No,’ I said; ‘don’t shut it. Leave it like that.’
He was dressed in a gray tourist suit. Never before had I seen him in any but the formal attire of London. I thought he looked singularly graceful and distinguished, even romantic, in that loose, soft clothing. But no matter what he wore, Frank satisfied the eye. We were both extremely nervous and excited and timid, fearing speech.
‘Carlotta,’ he said at last—I had perceived that he was struggling to a resolution—‘this is the best thing that could have happened. Whatever we do, everybody will believe that we are running off together.’
‘I think they have been believing that ever since we left London,’ I said; and I told him about Miss Kate’s treatment of me at lunch. ‘But how can that affect us?’ I demanded.