"What could you have told me?"
"Nothing."
At least she had told him the truth about the bouillabaise. He gave himself up to that consolation with fearful restraint.
It was half an hour later when he made one more attempt to drag the conversation back from the delightful flights of nothingness into which she was able to lead it so adroitly.
"Aside from my beautiful profile and my great literary gifts," he said, "I'd still like to know what made you want to see me again."
"I wanted you to pay for my dinner," she said seriously. "And I do like you — very much."
He remembered the way she had kissed him at her door, and forced himself to consider that if he had gone for that he would probably have been going for something as calculated as her simplicity.
"It couldn't have been, by any chance, because you wanted to find out if I knew any more?"
"But why should I? I am not a detective. Do I keep asking you questions?" She was wide open and disarming. "No, I am just guilty of liking you. If you wanted to tell me things, I would listen. You see, my dear, I have that Russian feeling which you would think stupid or — corny: that a woman should be the slave of a man she admires. I am fascinated by you. So, I must be interested in what you are doing. That is all."
The Saint's teeth gripped together while he smiled.