"Oh no! My thoughts wouldn't be a bargain at a penny. Tell me—have you seen Mr. Radwalader lately?"
"Last night. We went to the Français."
"You continue to like him?"
"I think we should never be intimate friends. Apart from the difference in our ages and opinions, there's something about him which I don't seem to get at—like shaking a gloved hand, if you know what I mean."
"Ye-es," said Mirabelle slowly. "It's odd you should have noticed that."
"But it's ungrateful of me to mention even that small objection," continued Andrew. "He's been the soul of kindness, and has shown me all over Paris, introduced me everywhere, and, in general, explained things. I've learned more in three weeks with him than I could have learned myself in a year. So, you see, I couldn't very well help liking him, even if I wanted to help it—which I don't. Why do you ask?"
For an instant Mirabelle's slender hand fluttered toward him with an odd little tentative gesture, and then went back to her cheek.
"I'm not sure," she answered. "Perhaps only for lack of anything else to say. People have told me that they disliked Mr. Radwalader—that they distrusted him."
"I suppose we're all of us disliked and distrusted—by somebody," said Andrew. "But, so far as I'm concerned, Radwalader's my friend. Perhaps you don't know me well enough yet to understand that that means a great deal."
"You're very loyal you mean?" suggested the girl.