“Good evening, Mademoiselle Andree,” said a voice in her own language, and she looked up with that childishly startled air which was hers alone. It was Monsieur Robert, smiling with handsome boyishness and with a twinkle of mischief in his eye. She regarded him gravely.
“Good evening, monsieur,” she replied, timidly.
“I have good fortune,” he said. “I have thought of you so often; I have wished to meet you, and, behold! here you are.”
She made no reply, but stood looking at him questioningly.
“Is it permitted to say that mademoiselle is very pretty this evening—as always?... Ah, we were to be friends, do you remember? It was agreed, was it not? And some day we were to talk of many things ... of the Académie and the Comédie and of yourself. Was it not so?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“It is well.” He laughed gaily. “Then shall we talk this evening? You shall dine with me, then.... It is impossible that you are much occupied. Fortune could not be so unkind. You will dine with me and we will talk of those plans of yours?”
She considered a moment unsmilingly, and Monsieur Robert wondered what were her thoughts. It was impossible to guess.
“Yes,” she said, presently.
“There is a café at the corner of the rue Soufflot. Does that please you?”