“What if she does come! She won’t be surprised to see me here.”
“No, but I have a plan. It will be safest if she doesn’t know you’re in Paris at all. You must leave me at once.”
His heart sank. “But when do I see you?”
“Next Sunday evening.”
“A whole week?” The sunlight seemed gone.
“On Sunday morning Olive goes to Brussels for a few days—she’s only waiting to finish that statuette of Fate, isn’t it weird? All those things there are Olive’s handiwork; how clever she is! I only do the menial work of pouring in the plaster. It saves money, because—”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, impatiently. “And on Sunday evening?”
“You will call for me here—say about seven—you will take me to dinner, somewhere quiet in this great free Paris.” She made a great circle with her arms, as if enjoying the elbow-room. “And then—” she smiled intoxicatingly, “then we can talk over the future.” Her eyes looked heavenly promise. He caught her in his arms. This time she struggled away.
“No, no! She may be back at any moment. I hear footsteps. You must go.”
She pushed him towards the door.