"I have n't heard from Chic since Christmas," he explained; "so I did n't know. Then you are back here in Paris—alone?"
Unconsciously he had emphasized that word "alone."
"Why not?" she asked directly.
She held her head a bit high, as if in challenge.
"Nothing; only—"
He did not finish. He could not very well tell her that she was too confoundedly good-looking to be alone in Paris. Yet that was what he thought, in spite of his belief that, of all the women he had ever met, she was the best able to be alone anywhere. There were times when he had sat beside her, not feeling sure that he was in the same room with her: it was as if he were looking at her through plate-glass. To-night, however, it was not like that. She looked like a younger sister of herself.
"Still painting?" he inquired.
"As much as they will let me."
"They?"
She leaned forward with a frown, folding her arms upon the table.