“It must be beautiful to understand your mother. Professor Smallman has told me all about you, and I do hope you’ll come.”
“I’d like to come.”
“That’s settled then. We have supper at the Verein, and I’ll introduce you to some people you’ll like to know. It’s nice to know your friends’ friends, don’t you think?”
René felt vaguely uneasy.
“Friends’ friends,” he repeated almost interrogatively.
“Friends,” said Miss Brock, “are those whom you have always known you would meet.” This she said with a kind of recklessness that was almost exaltation. It certainly startled René into something like emotion, into the desire to respond. For the first time during their conversation his eyes met hers full, and he was confronted with a smile so charmingly inquisitive that he was compelled to satisfy their curiosity and he jerked out:
“Yes. Friends.”
And it seemed to him that she had given and he had accepted—something. Gift and acceptance were so surreptitious that the nature of them was a matter of almost complete indifference. The great thing was the giving and the accepting, and the excitement of the transaction drowned the little emotion that had stirred in him. One more glance he stole at her, and he saw that she was satisfied, that their conversation was at an end. Yet neither could end it, and it was a relief to both when Kurt came hooting and snorting by on his motorcycle.
“Till Wednesday then,” said Miss Brock.
“You—you didn’t say what time.”