“Through there,” said the painter, pointing to another door, “they dance. So it goes. London in war-time! Well, after all, it is never very different; no great town is. Did you enjoy your sight of 'life,' mademoiselle?”
“I think one must dance, to be happy. Is that where your friends go?”
“Oh, no! To a room much rougher, and play dominoes, and drink coffee and beer, and talk. They have no money to throw away.”
“Why didn't you show me?”
“Mademoiselle, in that room you might see someone perhaps whom one day you would meet again; in the place we visited you were safe enough at least I hope so.”
Noel shrugged. “I suppose it doesn't matter now, what I do.”
And a rush of emotion caught at her throat—a wave from the past—the moonlit night, the dark old Abbey, the woods and the river. Two tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I was thinking of—something,” she said in a muffled voice. “It's all right.”
“Chere mademoiselle!” Lavendie murmured; and all the way home he was timid and distressed. Shaking his hand at the door, she murmured:
“I'm sorry I was such a fool; and thank you awfully, monsieur. Good night.”