Monsieur Foa gave a sudden enchanting smile:
“Yes, Madame. I hear much good of him from my friend Dauphin, much good. And we long to hear him play. It appears he is a great artist.”
“He has had an accident,” said Audrey. Monsier Foa’s face grew serious. “It is nothing—a few days. The elbow—a trifle. He cannot play next Friday. But he will be desolated if he may not play to you later. He has so few friends.... I came.... I....”
“Madame, every Friday we are at home, every Friday. My wife will be ravished. I shall be ravished. Believe me. Let him be reassured.”
“Monsieur, you are too amiable. I shall tell Musa.”
“Musa, he may have few friends—it is possible, Madame—but he is nevertheless fortunate. Madame is English, is it not so? My wife and I adore England and the English. For us there is only England. If Madame would do us the honour of coming when Musa plays.... My wife will send an invitation, to the end of remaining within the rules. You, Madame, and any of your friends.”
“Monsieur is too amiable, truly.”
In the end they were standing together on the pavement by the waiting taxi. She gave him her card, and breathed the words “Hôtel du Danube.” He was enchanted. She offered her hand. He took it, raised it, and kissed the back of it. Then he stood with his hat off until she had passed from his sight.
Audrey was burning with excitement. She said to herself:
“I have discovered Paris.”