"I wonder," I said reflectively, "what made your uncle bring you here."
"It was a promise," she said hurriedly,—"a promise of long ago. You yourself must know that. Your letter from your brother in South America said, 'Mr. Delora and his niece.'"
"It is true," I admitted. "But why he should want to bring you and then neglect you like this—But I forgot," I interrupted. "We must not talk so. Tell me, you have been often to the theatre in Paris?"
"Very seldom," she answered, "and I love it so much. Madame Müller and I go sometimes, but where we live is some distance from Paris, and it is difficult to get home afterwards, especially for us two alone. My uncle takes us sometimes, but he is generally so occupied."
"He is often in Paris, then?" I asked.
She started a little.
"Yes!" she said hurriedly. "He is often there, of course. But please do not forget,—to-night we do not talk about my uncle. We talk about ourselves. May I ask you something?"
"Certainly!" I answered.
"If my uncle says 'No!'—that I may not come—do you go away altogether, then, to-morrow?"
"No," I answered, "I do not! I shall not leave you alone here. So long as you stay, I shall remain in London."