Gretchen shrugged.
"I haven't heard its equal outside Berlin or Paris," I went on.
"Paris?" said Gretchen, laying a neat little trap for me into which my conceit was soon to tumble me. "Paris is a marvelous city."
"There is no city to equal it. Inasmuch as we three shall never meet again, will you not do me the honor to repeat that jewel song from Faust?" My audacity did not impress her in the least.
"You can scarcely expect me to give a supper to a stranger and then sing for him, besides," said Gretchen, a chill again stealing into her tones. "These Americans!" she observed to her companion in French.
I laid aside my cigar, approached the piano, and sat down. I struck a few chords and found the instrument to be in remarkably good order. I played a Chopin Polonaise, I tinkled Grieg's Papillon, then I ceased.
"That is to pay for my supper," I explained.
Next I played Le Courier, and when I had finished that I turned again, rising.
"That is to pay for my horse's supper," I said.
Gretchen's good humor returned.