“’Tis too tiresome! I shall be back in London within the next day or two, and we may never meet again.”
Her long lashes were resting on her cheeks as she looked down at the tip of one of her dainty shoes. He looked at her, and his artistic appreciation compelled him to acknowledge that he had never before seen such marvellously long lashes.
He followed the direction of her eyes, and his artistic feeling—he had begun to feel—assured him that he had never seen a daintier foot.
“Why should it be impossible for us ever to meet again?” he asked.
“Ah! why—why, indeed?” she cried. “It has just occurred to me that if you had half an hour to spare to-morrow, you might not grudge sharing it with an old woman whose interest you have aroused on a question of art. You shall bring your violin with you and demonstrate to me your theory that love is particularly susceptible of being illustrated through the medium of music. Oh, ’tis wholly a question of art—that is why I am so interested in its solution.”
“Why, madam, nothing could give me greater pleasure!” he cried. “I shall go to you after dinner, and I promise you that I shall convince you.”
“You may have a hard task, sir. I give you warning that on any question of art I am obstinate.”
“Then my victory will be all the greater. Should I bring with me also a sonata illustrating the approach of autumn—’tis by a German composer of some distinction?”
“The approach of autumn?” said she. “Ah, I think we would do well to defer the consideration of the chills as long as possible. We will content ourselves with the approach of love, for the time being.”
“Perhaps you are right,” he said.