“Eat!” she said peremptorily. “I will not touch another mouthful.”
She leaned an elbow on her knee and her chin upon her knuckles while I devoured what remained. Her eyes dreamed into the thronging tree-trunks. I thought the real softness of her soul was beginning to quicken like a February narcissus.
“But how I long for meat!” she said, suddenly.
I laughed.
“If mademoiselle will retain me in her service, I will make shift to provide her with a dish of pork.”
She turned and looked at me.
“Is it true you have sought me out? I have no knowledge of your face.”
“It will not, like mademoiselle’s, impress itself on the imagination. I have seen you, by chance, twice before, mademoiselle, and therefore it follows, in the logic of gallantry, that I am here.”
She drew herself up at that word I was foolish enough to utter.
“I perceive, monsieur, that you hold the licence of your tongue a recommendation to my service. Is this another message with the delivery of which you would not insult me?”