“I think you’re really wonderful, Timothy,” she said. “You know you are allowed one final flutter.”
“I’m saving that up for Monte Carlo,” said Timothy.
Since his arrival in Paris he had lost the right to his name, for he was taking no chances. If he went abroad at night he kept to the brilliantly illuminated boulevards or the crowded cafés. He kept clear of the crowds—especially crowds which formed quickly and for no apparent reason.
He was taking no chances because he felt it was not fair upon the particular genius who presided over his destinies that he should squander his luck in a miraculous escape from death or disablement. Only once, when dining at the Scribe, did he think he saw the familiar face of Mr. Brown. With an apology he left the two ladies and made his way with difficulty through the crowded restaurant, only to find that his man had disappeared.
“These cafés have as many doors as a trick-scene,” he grumbled when he came back.
“Did you see a friend of yours?” asked the girl.
“Not so much a friend as one who has a financial interest in me,” replied Timothy.
Mrs. Renfrew had thawed a little under the beneficent influences of Paris. She was busy sending off picture-postcards and had written to Bath her first impression of the French capital to the extent of three columns. She had also written a poem which began: “Oh, city of light that shines so bright,” and went on rhyming “vain” with “Seine,” “gay” with “play,” “joy” with “alloy,” through twenty-three stanzas.
“I rather pride myself,” said Mrs. Renfrew, “upon that description of Paris—‘the city of light.’ Don’t you think it is very original, Mr. Anderson?”
“It was,” said Timothy diplomatically. “Parisians have called it the ‘Ville Lumière’ for about two hundred years.”