He looked at her with an expression of comical despair.
“What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. You seem altogether altered, too. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?”
“I certainly am,” she admitted.
He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way.
“Of course!” he said. “You have changed somehow—and you certainly are less friendly.”
She laughed. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly.
“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. It depresses one, you know.”
He nodded.
“You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked. “But, forgive me, you are tired. Won’t you come and have some tea with me? There is a new place in Bond Street,” he hastened to say, “where everything is very well done, and they give us music, if that is any attraction to you.”
She hesitated and looked for a moment straight into his eyes. He certainly bore inspection. He was tall and straight, and his expression was good.