"Let me see the letter you have written."
"No; don't look at it. I'd rather you didn't."
"Why, dearest? Because there's something about me in it?"
"No, indeed. I would not write anything about you that I wouldn't show you. No; what I don't want you to see is about myself."
"About yourself! Well, as you like, don't show me anything you don't want to."
"But I don't like to have secrets from you, Owen; I hate secrets."
"One of these days you'll tell me what you've written. I'm quite satisfied." He raised her face and kissed her tenderly, and she felt that she loved him better for his well-assumed indifference. Then they went downstairs, and she admired her dress in the long glasses on the landings. She listened to his French as he asked for a stamp. The courtyard was full of sunlight and carriages. The pages pushed open the glass doors for them to pass, and, tingling with health and all the happiness and enchantment of love, she walked by his side under the arcade—glad when, in walking, they came against each other—swinging her parasol pensively, wondering what happy word to say, a little perplexed that she should have a secret from him, and all the while healthily hungry. Suddenly she recognised the street as the one where they had dined on Friday night. He pushed open a white-painted door, and it seemed to her that all the white-aproned waiters advanced to meet her; and the one who drew the table forward that she might pass seemed to fully appreciate the honour of serving them. A number of hors d'oeuvres were placed before her, but she only ate bread and butter and a radish, until Owen insisted on her trying the filets d'anchois—the very ones she was originally most averse from. The sole was cooked very elaborately in a rich brown sauce. The tiny chicken which followed it was first shown to her in a tin saucepan; then the waiter took it away and carved it at a side table. She enjoyed the melon which, for her sake, ended instead of beginning the meal, as Owen said it should.
An Englishman, a friend of Owen's, sat at the next table, and she could see he regretted that Owen had not introduced him. Most of his conversation seemed designed for that end, and when they got up to go, his eyes surely said, "Well, I wish that he had introduced us; I think we should have got on together." And the eyes of the young man who sat at the opposite table said, as plain as any words, "I'd have given anything to have been introduced! Shall we ever meet again?"
So her exit was very thrilling; and no sooner were they on the pavement than another surprise was in store for her.
A smart coachman touched his hat, and Owen stepped back for her to get into the victoria.