“No.”
“That is droll.... And thees cook?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“I must come to see thees apartment and thees cook. I must know how much you pay, and if it is too much.... Ah, you shall have a dinner and she shall cook, and I shall be there, and your friend, thees Monsieur Stanley, and his friend. We shall know each other.”
“I don’t know,” he said, doubtfully, thinking of the proprieties and wondering what the concierge would say if he were to give a dinner such as she suggested. His acquaintance with concierges was limited.
Again they were walking up the dark Boulevard St.-Michel, and again she would not permit him to accompany her to her door. “Good night.... It was ver’ nice, and I think you are ver’ nice—perhaps.”
“But you don’t love me?” he asked, trifling with destiny without intention, as young men will trifle.
“I do not know—yet.... I do not know you. And you do not love me. Oh no, no! It is not possible. You make fun of me. I can see you make grimace even in the dark.”
“When do we play together again?”
“Soon.... I cannot see you to-morrow, but the day after—yes.... It is not a good place to meet, the Place St.-Michel. It is far. No, it shall be the Metro, Place de la Concorde, at sept heures.”