“Is it?” said June, warily.
“Don’t you agree,” he said, with a laugh that sounded decidedly pleasant.
“It’s a thing I should never think of doing myself.”
“You are lucky.” He was amused by her bluntness. “I wish I had your good memory.”
The tea arrived, and June poured it out in a spirit of thankfulness. As soon as she had drunk half a cup, which was reviving, she forgot all about her annoyance in a new feeling of exhilaration tempered by quiet amusement.
“You are most remarkably like a Scotch girl I used to know in Paris,” said the man, taking up the thread of conversation, after having drunk a little, a very little, ginger beer.
“Am I?” said June, coolly.
“She was an artist’s model. Sometimes she used to sit for me.”
“Are you an artist?” said June, allowing herself to become interested, for the reason perhaps that she simply could not help it.
“Of sorts,” was the answer. “I studied several years in Paris before the war.”