"Gilbert."
"Thou knowest—I have a fancy for thee."
Her tone was delicious, its sincerity absolutely convincing.
"Too amiable."
"No, no. It is true. Say! Return. Return after thy committee. Take me out to dinner—some gentle little restaurant, discreet. There must be many of them in a city like London. It is a city so romantic. Oh! The little corners of London!"
"But—of course. I should be enchanted—"
"Well, then."
He was standing. She raised her smiling, seductive face. She was young—younger than Concepcion; less battered by the world's contacts than Concepcion. She had the inexpressible virtue and power of youth. He was nearing fifty. And she, perhaps half his age, had confessed his charm.
"And say! My Gilbert. Bring me a few flowers. I have not been able to go out to-day. [77] Something very simple. I detest that one should squander money on flowers for me."
"Seven-thirty, then!" said he. "And you will be ready?"