“I’m not conventional,” I said.
“Yes, you are. Living in England has spoiled you. You’re afraid of things you never used to be afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid of things, and I’m not a bit changed,” I said. “You only want to ‘dare’ me.”
“I want you to go with me. It would be so much nicer than going alone,” she begged. “Supposing I got ill in a hired cab? I might, you know; but I can’t stay indoors, whatever happens. If we were together it would be an adventure worth remembering.”
“Very well,” I said, “I’ll go with you, not for the adventure, but rather than have you make a fuss because I try to keep you in, and rather than you should go alone.”
“Good girl!” exclaimed Lisa, quite pleasant and purring, now that she had got her way; though if I’d refused she would probably have cried. She is terrifying when she cries. Great, deep sobs seem almost to tear her frail little body to pieces. She goes deadly white, and sometimes ends up by a fit of trembling as if she were in an ague.
“Have you really ordered a motor cab?” I asked.
“Yes,” said she. “I rang for a waiter, and sent him down to tell the big porter at the front door to get me one. Then I gave him five francs, and said I did not want anybody to know, because I must visit a poor, sick friend who had written to say she was in great trouble, but wished to tell no one except me that she’d come to Paris.”
“I shouldn’t have thought such an elaborate story necessary to a waiter,” I remarked, tossing up my chin a little, for I don’t like Lisa’s subterranean ways. But this time she didn’t even try to defend herself.
“Let’s get ready at once,” she said. “I’m going to put on my long travelling cloak, to cover up this dress, and wear my black toque, with a veil. I suppose you’ll do the same? Then we can slip out, and down the ‘service’ stairs. The carriage is to wait for us at the side entrance.”