“And now refuse.”
“It is very generous. She has a heart of flint, Monsieur.”
“Well I know it. Perhaps now I have one of steel.”
“Many sparks do not make a fire. Do you know that your French is very good?”
“I spent my boyhood in Paris; some of it. Her address, if you please.” He produced a crisp note for a hundred francs. “Do you want it?”
She did not answer at once. Presently she opened her purse, found a stubby pencil and a slip of paper, and wrote. “There it is, Monsieur.” She held out her hand for the bank-note which, with a sense of bafflement, he gave her. She folded the note and stowed it away with the pencil.
“Thank you,” said Courtlandt. “Odd paper, though.” He turned it over. “Ah, I understand. You copy music.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
This time the nervous flicker of her eyes did not escape him. “You are studying for the opera, perhaps?”
“Yes, that is it.”