"Columns about me," she declared blithely. "The general idea is that I am suffering from a lapse of memory. They have found traces of me in every part of England. Not a word about Paris, thank goodness!"
"But do you mean to say that no one has an idea of where you are? Won't your mother be anxious?"
"Not a bit of it," Lady Anne laughed. "I left a note for her, just to say that she wasn't to worry. She knows I'll take care of myself all right. Julien, don't you love these streets and their crowds of people? Every one looks as though they were on a holiday."
"So they are," Julien replied. "Life is only a holiday over here. In England we go about with our eyes fixed upon the deadliest thing in life we can imagine. Over here, depression is a crime. They call into their minds the most joyous thing they can think of. It becomes a habit. They think only of the pleasantness of life. They keep their troubles buried underneath."
"It is the way to live," she murmured.
"This, at any rate," he answered, leading the way into Henry's "is the place at which to dine. Just fancy, we were engaged for three months and not once did I dine with you alone! Now we are not engaged and we think nothing of it."
"Less than nothing," she agreed, "except that I am frightfully hungry."
They found a comfortable table. Julien took up the menu and wrote out the dinner carefully.
"In this country," he said, leaning back, "we are spared the barbarity of table d'hôte dinners. Therefore we must wait, but what does it matter? There is always something to talk about."
"I am glad to hear that you feel like that, Julien. I remember sometimes when we were alone together in England, we seemed to find it a trifle difficult."