“In a way it is,” he admitted judicially. “But I can tell you it was much more agreeable being in Paris.”
“Oh! Have you been to Paris?”
“Lived there for nearly two years,” he said carelessly. Then, looking at her, “Didn’t you notice I never came for a long time?”
“I didn’t know you were in Paris,” she evaded him.
“I went to start a sort of agency for Birkinshaws,” he said.
“I suppose you talk French like anything.”
“Of course one has to talk French,” said he. “I learnt French when I was a child from a governess—my uncle made me—but I forgot most of it at school, and at the Varsity you never learn anything—precious little, anyhow! Certainly not French!”
She was deeply impressed. He was a much greater personage than she had guessed. It had never occurred to her that commercial travellers had to go to a university to finish their complex education. And then, Paris! Paris meant absolutely nothing to her but pure, impossible, unattainable romance. And he had been there! The clouds of glory were around him. He was a hero, dazzling. He had come to her out of another world. He was her miracle. He was almost too miraculous to be true.
She, living her humdrum life at the shop! And he, elegant, brilliant, coming from far cities! They together, side by side, strolling up the road towards the Moorthorne ridge! There was nothing quite like this in the stories of Miss Sewell.
“Your uncle...?” she questioned vaguely.