“I cannot imagine,” she took him up quickly, “why you could wish such a thing.” John had the decency to blush.
“I did not know you spoke English,” he apologised.
“It is sometimes a little fretting,” she replied, “when I do not say so, soon.”
And I decided that she was no knee-high sport. Her manner was neither over friendly nor severe. Her presence was a tonic; we had both forgotten our annoyance at waiting so long. She had too much personality to make a comfortable companion; she was, in fact, a creature to admire; a woman to wear a crown or lead armies; a Pompadour or a Joan of Arc; an actress or a politician. John had grown a full inch taller, he had a new poise, he was all gallantry and charm. As I looked at him I realised that she had done the same thing to me, that I was standing before her, all attention, waiting for any small jot of notice she might care to bestow on me. I felt that if she had stood on the Cathedral steps at Herrovosca instead of that slim little girl in white there would have been no question of revolution. This woman had the authoritative presence of Queen Yolanda, and a friendly, gracious manner besides.
She looked at John for a full half minute, without once blinking those yellow eyes, then she turned to me, and I felt that I should have been more careful when I dressed. My shoes had not been properly shined, and the spot where I had spilled the wine must show, and I had worn the same collar all day, and my hair needed combing, but in spite of my many defects, she was kind enough to smile at me.
“These gentlemen ’ave passports?” she asked of the officer, holding out her hand for them. She laughed at the Paris driving cards. “You ’ave forgotten, per’aps, to bring your diploma from a school?” she asked John, quite seriously. “I imagine you ’ave gone to one?”
“And,” he admitted, “my insurance policy. But I will be quite happy to write home for them if you wish. I should be delighted to wait here until they come.”
“That,” she answered, not displeased, “is just the way all the Americans speak in the books I ’ave read. Your passports seem to be quite in order. What is your destination in Rheatia?”
John looked so chagrined that I answered, “We are merely tourists, we have no real destination. I am a writer, Mr. Colton is an artist, we mean to write and paint, but so far we have not stopped long enough to do any work.”
“Ah, then you are Marshall Carvin? You may proceed,” she permitted, sweetly. She referred to the passports for another moment, then handed them back to us with a smile. “Au revoir, messieurs.”