She walked up the Rue des Sts. Pères, enjoying the delicious air. Half way across the bridge she overtook a man, strolling listlessly in front of her. There was something familiar about him. He was wearing a grey suit and had his hands in his pockets. Suddenly the truth flashed upon her. She stopped. If he strolled on, she would be able to slip back. Instead of which he abruptly turned to look down at a passing steamer, and they were face to face.
It made her mad, the look of delight that came into his eyes. She could have boxed his ears. Hadn’t he anything else to do but hang about the streets.
He explained that he had been listening to the band in the gardens, returning by the Quai d’Orsay.
“Do let me come with you,” he said. “I kept myself free this evening, hoping. And I’m feeling so lonesome.”
Poor fellow! She had come to understand that feeling. After all, it wasn’t altogether his fault that they had met. And she had been so cross to him!
He was reading every expression on her face.
“It’s such a lovely evening,” he said. “Couldn’t we go somewhere and dine under a tree?”
It would be rather pleasant. There was a little place at Meudon, she remembered. The plane trees would just be in full leaf.
A passing cab had drawn up close to them. The chauffeur was lighting his pipe.
Even Mrs. Grundy herself couldn’t object to a journalist dining with a politician!