One woman alone shook her head.
"It is not money only," she murmured, "which buys these things here from Henri."…
The companion of Herr Carl Freudenberg was, without doubt, as charming as she appeared, for Herr Freudenberg certainly enjoyed his dinner as a man should. Nor were those lines of humor engraven about his mouth for nothing, to judge by the frequent peals of laughter from mademoiselle. Towards the close of dinner, Henri himself carried to them a superb violet ice, with real flowers around the dish and an electric light burning in the middle.
"For two days, madame," he announced, "our chef has dreamed of this. It is a creation."
"It is exquisite!" mademoiselle cried, with a gesture of delight.
"Never in my life have I seen anything so wonderful."
"Henri," Herr Freudenberg said in an aside, "you will present my compliments to the chef. You will shake him by the hand from me. You will double the little affair which passes between us. Tell him that it comes from one who appreciates the work of a great artist, even though his French thickens a little in his throat."
Henri bowed low.
"If monsieur's body is German," he declared, "his soul at least belongs to the land of romance."
They were alone again and the girl leaned across the table.
"Monsieur," she murmured, "it is cruel of you to come so seldom. You see what you do? You spoil the keepers of our restaurants, you steal away the hearts of your poor little companions, and then—one night or two, perhaps, and it is over. Monsieur Freudenberg has gone. The earth swallows him."