“What I liked most of all,” said I, “was the rummy little music room on the deck with the piano that made such tender, melting sounds. I used to feel tremendously sentimental in the evenings. There was an Italian girl who sang Neapolitan songs as though she really meant them.”
“I know,” she said eagerly; “wouldn’t it be fine if all life were like that? But I suppose it wouldn’t, really. Sweetness so soon cloys.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “we all require bitter days in between: they add zest to our appetite when the good days come along.”
We talked obvious things of this kind all through the meal.
“Will Madame have coffee here or in the lounge?” asked Lovelace when we had finished our fruit.
She looked up at him and smiled divinely, and in return he smiled a pleasant English smile that meant nothing of what she wished it to mean.
“It all depends on Monsieur,” she said, turning to me. “Shall we have coffee here?”
“As you please,” said I.
“Very well, then, here.”