I had been for a saunter through the town. Several times I had returned before I found Fiesole beneath the fig-tree in the courtyard, seated at the table with a paper spread out in front of her. She looked up swiftly at sound of my footstep and threw me a smile, gathering herself in to make room for me beside her. When I stood over her, she lifted up her face with childish eagerness as though we had not kissed already more than once that morning. “Shall I order déjeuner out here?”
She nodded. “Where else, but in the sunshine?” When I came back from giving the order, her red-gold head was bent again above the paper.
“Something interesting?”
“Rather.” She raised her green eyes mischievously. “It’s all up. We’ll be collared within the hour.”
“What’s all up? Who’s got the right to collar us?”
“Paris thinks it has, the whole of France thinks it has, but most particularly Monsieur Georges thinks he has, and so does the theatre-management.”
“Let ’em try. We don’t care.”
“But, old boy, I do care a little. You see, I shouldn’t have been here now if it hadn’t been for Monsieur Georges, Paris, and the rest of them. They gave me my chance; going off like this has left them in the lurch. It isn’t playing the game, as I understand it.”
“If it’s damages for a broken contract they’re after, I’ll settle that for you.”
She smiled mysteriously and, bowing her head above the paper, read me extracts, throwing in, now and then, her own vivacious comments.