“Isn’t it nice?” said Helena. “Isn’t it like the old times? I always loved this old town. It seems so homelike.”
“Please do not use that word, Helena,” said I. “I wish to be entirely happy to-night, in the belief that some time I shall know what home is.”
“Do you think Jean knew me also?” she demanded. “Certainly, I have been here also before.”
“No one who has ever seen you, Helena, ever forgets you. But Jean is, of course, discreet.”
“Suppose he knew that I was here to-night against my free will, and only under parole?”
“Jean is wise; he knows such things ought not to be, even if they are. And he understood me when I said, ‘not yet.’”
“Yes,” said she; “quite right. Pas encore!”
Jean returned, and as a special favor to an old patron asked us politely if we would enjoy a look through the kitchen and the ice-boxes. As usual, we accepted this invitation, and passed back through the green swing doors, following our guide along the row of charcoal fires, through a dingy room decorated with shining coppers and bits of glass and silver. These ice-boxes were such as to offer continual delight to any epicure, what with their rows of fat clean fishes and crabs and oysters, the birds nicely plucked, all the dainties which this rich market of the South could afford, from papabotte to terrapin. Helena herself selected two woodcock and approved the judgment of Jean in canvasback. Presently she turned to me, a flush of embarrassment upon her face.
“Harry,” she said, “I don’t like to say anything, but you know—you’ve been telling me you were so poor. Now, a girl doesn’t want to make it difficult——”
“Mademoiselle,” said I, bowing, “I am quite able to foot the bill to-night. I had just sold some hay before I started from home.”