My neighbour was delighted with our situation. “This is best of all,” she said. “I never believed I should come to a café with two strange men! Now, you can’t persuade me this isn’t wrong.”
“To make it wrong we ought to see your mother coming down that path.”
“Ah, my mother makes everything wrong,” said the young girl, attacking with a little spoon in the shape of a spade the apex of a pink ice. And then she returned to her idea of a moment before: “You must promise to tell me—to warn me in some way—whenever I strike a false note. You must give a little cough, like that—ahem!”
“You will keep me very busy, and people will think I am in a consumption.”
“Voyons,” she continued, “why have you never talked to me more? Is that a false note? Why haven’t you been ‘attentive?’ That’s what American girls call it; that’s what Miss Ruck calls it.”
I assured myself that our companions were out of earshot, and that Miss Ruck was much occupied with a large vanilla cream. “Because you are always entwined with that young lady. There is no getting near you.”
Aurora looked at her friend while the latter devoted herself to her ice. “You wonder why I like her so much, I suppose. So does mamma; elle s’y perd. I don’t like her particularly; je n’en suis pas folle. But she gives me information; she tells me about America. Mamma has always tried to prevent my knowing anything about it, and I am all the more curious. And then Miss Ruck is very fresh.”
“I may not be so fresh as Miss Ruck,” I said, “but in future, when you want information, I recommend you to come to me for it.”
“Our friend offers to take me to America; she invites me to go back with her, to stay with her. You couldn’t do that, could you?” And the young girl looked at me a moment. “Bon, a false note I can see it by your face; you remind me of a maître de piano.”
“You overdo the character—the poor American girl,” I said. “Are you going to stay with that delightful family?”