He explained Kendricks' idea. Her eyes glistened.
"It's really splendid," she declared. "How I should love to have seen your first article!"
"You shall read it afterwards," he told her. "I have a copy of Le
Grand Journal in my overcoat pocket."
She beckoned to the vestiaire.
"I will not wait a moment," she insisted. "I shall read it while dinner is being served. It's a glorious idea, this, to fight your way back with your pen. There are those nowadays who tell us, you know, Julien, that there is more to be done through the Press than in Parliament. Your spoken words can influence only a small number of people. What you write the world reads."
She explained what she desired to the vestiaire. He reappeared a minute or two later with the newspaper. She spread it out before her. Julien read it over her shoulder. He himself had seen it before, but his own eyes were the brighter as he reread it. When she had finished she said very little. They ate the first course of their dinner almost in silence. Then she laid her hand suddenly upon his.
"Julien, dear," she said, "I have done you a wrong. I am sorry."
"A wrong?" he repeated.
She looked at him almost humbly. There was something new in her eyes, something new in her expression.
"I am afraid," she continued, "that I never looked upon you as anything more than the ordinary stereotyped politician, a skilful debater, of course, and with the chessboard brains of diplomacy. This,"—she touched the newspaper with her forefinger—"this is something very different."