“I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had—tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz.”
Annabel shook her head.
“Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. He would be so disappointed. I am sure it will be good, John, and I could eat anything. No, let us dine here, and then go and have our coffee on the boulevards. We can take our things up with us and stay at the Continental or the Ritz.”
“Excellent,” Sir John declared. “We will do Paris like the tourists, and thank God here comes dinner.”
Everything was good. The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. They went first to a hotel, and then out again on to the boulevards. The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected them both. They laughed and talked and stared about them. She took his hand in hers.
“Dear John,” she whispered. “We are to begin our married life to-night—here where I first met you. I shall only pray that I may reward you for all your goodness to me.”
Sir John, frankly oblivious of the possibility of passers-by, took her into his arms and kissed her. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre.
“Hotel Ritz!”