"Oh, le bon Dieu be praised!" cried Tricotrin, for all the world as if he had been back on the boulevard Rochechouart. "I was dazed with travel, or I should have recognized you were a Frenchwoman. Did you, too, leave Paris last night, mademoiselle?"
"Ah, no," said the girl pensively. "I have been in London for months. I hoped to meet a friend who wrote that she would arrive this morning, but,"—she sighed—"she has not come!"
"She will arrive to-night instead, no doubt; I should have no anxiety. You may be certain she will arrive to-night, and this contretemps will be forgotten."
She pouted. "I was looking forward so much to seeing her! To a stranger who cannot speak the language, London is as triste as a tomb. Today, I was to have had a companion, and now—"
"Indeed, I sympathise with you," replied Tricotrin. "But is it really so—London is what you say? You alarm me. I am here absolutely alone. Where, then, shall I go this morning?"
"There are churches," she said, after some reflection.
"And besides?"
"W-e-ll, there are other churches."
"Of course, such things can be seen in Paris also," demurred Tricotrin. "It is not essential to go abroad to say one's prayers. If I may take the liberty of applying to you, in which direction would you recommend me to turn my steps? For example, where is Soho—is it too far for a walk?"
"No, monsieur, it is not very far—it is the quarter in which I lodge."