We entered into conversation.
I asked whether she lived in Rome.
“No. My papa is here on business for a little while, and then we are going to Paris again.”
“Your home is in Paris, then?”
She looked rather puzzled. “I don’t know Paris well,” she observed apologetically. “We were only there once before, when mama was with us. It was a nice hotel, I thought, but noisy. This one—the Grand—is better. Have you been much in Paris?”
“Not since I was at school there. My French was acquired in Paris,” I added, automatically.
One says that kind of thing so often, to please the parents.
“Mademoiselle aime parler francais, hein?” she enquired, with a little smile.
Her French was as perfect as her Italian, or her English; and it was evidently natural to her to speak either language.
“Are you English?” I could not refrain from asking her.