"I am a poet, And when I am back in Paris I shall write verse about you. It shall be an impression of London—the great city as it reveals itself to a stranger whose eyes are dazzled by the girl he loves."
"Forbidden ground!" she cried, admonishing him with a finger. "No dazzle!"
"I apologise," said Tricotrin; "you shall find me a poet of my word. Why, I declare," he exclaimed, glancing from the window, "it has begun to rain!"
"Well, fortunately, we have plenty of time; there is all day for our excursion and we can wait for the weather to improve. If you do not object to smoking while I sing, monsieur, I propose a little music to go on with."
And it turned out that this singular assistant of a hairdresser had a very sympathetic voice, and no contemptible repertoire. Although the sky had now broken its promise shamefully and the downpour continued, Tricotrin found nothing to complain of. By midday one would have said that they had been comrades for years. By luncheon both had ceased even to regard the rain. And before evening approached, they had confided to each other their histories from the day of their birth.
Ascertaining that the basement boasted a smudgy servant girl, who was to be dispatched for entrées and sauterne, Tricotrin drew up the menu of a magnificent dinner as the climax. It was conceded that at this repast he should be the host; and having placed him on oath behind a screen, Rosalie proceeded to make an elaborate toilette in honour of his entertainment.
Determined, as he had said, to prove himself a poet of his word, the young man remained behind the screen as motionless as a waxwork, but the temptation to peep was tremendous, and at the whispering of a silk petticoat he was unable to repress a groan.
"What ails you?" she demanded, the whispering suspended.
"I merely expire with impatience to meet you again."
"Monsieur, I am hastening to the trysting-place, And my costume will be suitable to the occasion, believe me!"