He glowered at his plate. "Do you like chocolates? I'll send some tomorrow. I've been very remiss, I'm afraid, but I've lost the habit."
"I detest chocolates."
Squabs and green peas displaced the entree. The burgundy was admirable.
Once more he was permitted to gaze at her eyelashes. He plunged desperately. "The name Marie doesn't suit you. If ever I know you well enough I shall call you Mary. It suits your vast repose. That is why ordinary Marys are nicknamed 'Mamie' or 'Mame.'"
"I was christened Mary." She raised her eyes. They were no longer wise and unfathomable. They looked as young as his own. Probably younger, he reflected. She looked appealing and girlish. Once more he longed to protect her.
"Do you want to call me Mary?" she asked, smiling.
"I hardly know whether I do or not.… There's something else I should tell you. I swore I'd never ask you any more questions—but I—well, Dinwiddie kept on the scent until he was laid up. One of the Thornhills verified your story in so far as he remembered that a cousin had settled in Virginia and then moved on to Paris. There his information stopped.… But … Dinwiddie met a Countess Loyos at dinner."
"Countess Loyos?"
"Yes—know her?"
"Mathilde Loyos? She is one of my oldest friends."