She laughed uneasily.
"No, Monte; because you were just yourself yesterday."
He wondered about that. He wondered, if he placed before her all the facts, including the hours after he left her, if she would have said that. Here was his second opportunity to tell her what he had planned. If he did not intend to go on, he should speak now. To-morrow it would be too late. By noon it would be too late. By the time they finished their breakfast, it would be too late.
He met her eyes. They were steady as planets. They were honest and clear and clean and confident. They trusted him, and he knew it. He took a deep breath and leaned forward. Impulsively she leaned across the table and placed her hand upon his.
"Dear old Monte," she breathed.
It was too late—now! He saw her in a sort of mist of dancing golden motes. He felt the steady throb of her pulse.
She withdrew her hand as quickly as she had given it. It was as if she did not dare allow it to remain there. It was that which made him smile with a certain confidence of his own.
"What we'd better do," he said, "is to get out of Paris. I'm afraid the pace here is too hot for us."
"To Étois?" she asked.
"That's as good a place as any. Could you start this afternoon?"