"Oh! for a very long time," she answered, a little evasively. "He is wonderful, they all say. There is no one quite like him. A rich man has built a great restaurant in New York, and he offered him his own price if he would go and manage it. But Monsieur Louis said 'No!' He loves the Continent. He loves London. He will not go so far away."
"Monsieur Louis has perhaps, too, other ties here," I remarked dryly.
She looked at me across the table meaningly.
"Ah!" she said, "Louis—he does interest himself in many things. He and my uncle always have had much to say to one another. What it is all about I do not know, but I heard my uncle say once that Louis very soon would be as rich as he himself."
"Tell me how long you thought of staying in London?" I asked.
"It is not sure," she answered. "My uncle's business may be settled in a few hours, or it may take him weeks."
"The selling of his coffee?" I asked dryly.
"But certainly!" she answered.
"And from here you go to where?" I asked.
"Back to Paris," she answered, "and then, alas, to South America. It is to be buried!"