"And alone?" said Andrew.
"Her escort," answered Radwalader, with an almost imperceptible pause between the words, "is probably placing his bet. As I said before, if there's any one you want to meet—"
"Well, there is," replied Andrew, colouring a little. "We passed a girl in red back there a bit. It's possible you know her. I'm afraid you think me a good deal of a boy."
"I'm afraid you think a good deal of a girl," laughed Radwalader. "No, my dear chap. Or, rather, if your desire is an evidence of extreme youth, then the majority of men are fit subjects for a crèche. Come along, and we'll try to track your scarlet siren."
"We'll not have much difficulty," said Andrew, as they turned. "There she is now. Do you see? By the tree—in red."
"Oh," answered Radwalader, "oh, yes. That's Mirabelle Tremonceau. Your 'red' is cerise, as a matter of fact, but that's as near as the average man comes to the colour of a woman's gown."
"I can't imagine one spending much time in learning such things."
"Anywhere but in Paris, perhaps not. Here the knowledge is vital. It's part of one's education—like being able to distinguish a Louis Quatorze chair from a Louis Quinze, or a Fragonard from a Boucher ten feet away. If you want to meet Mademoiselle Tremonceau, I'll be very glad to present you."
"I might wait here while you ask her," suggested Andrew.
"Eh?" said Radwalader. "Oh, yes—by all means."