Louis' expression was one of honest surprise.
"Monsieur is serious?" he inquired. "It is only a short time ago that I was talking with Mademoiselle Delora, and she told me that she was dining with you here."
"I am dining with Miss Delora," I answered, "but I certainly did not understand that it was to be here."
Louis smiled.
"Perhaps," he remarked, "mademoiselle had, for the moment, the idea of going away for dinner. If so, believe me, she has changed her mind. Monsieur will see when he calls for her."
I passed on thoughtfully. There was something about this which I scarcely understood. It seemed almost as though Louis had but to direct, and every one obeyed. Was I, too, becoming one of his myrmidons? Was I, too, to dine at his café because he had spoken the word?
I made my way to number 157 precisely at half-past seven. Felicia was waiting for me, and for a moment I forgot to ask any questions,—forgot everything except the pleasure of looking at her. She wore a black lace gown,—beautifully cut, and modelled to perfection to reveal the delicate outline of her figure,—a rope of pearls, and a large hat and veil, arranged as only those can arrange them who have learnt how to dress in Paris. She looked at me a little anxiously.
"You like me?" she asked. "I will do?"
"You are charming," I answered, "You take my breath away. Indeed, mademoiselle, I have never dined with any one so charming."
She dropped me a little curtsey. Then her face clouded over.