“His name,” said Christopher, “is Paul Treherne, and he lives at a studio about ten minutes’ walk from here.”
“Paul Treherne,” she said slowly, dwelling on the words. “I like that name. Is he as nice as his name?”
“I shall leave you to judge,” replied Christopher.
“You had better bring him to see me,” she said. “To-morrow at tea-time will do. You can ring me up in the morning and tell me if he is coming.”
“Very well.” He glanced towards the clock on the mantelpiece, a beautiful little French clock. The hands pointed to half-past three.
“I must go,” he said. “I’ve an appointment at my club. I’ll go round to the studio first.” He got up from his chair.
“Then you can telephone from the club,” said Sara. “I am not going out again till this evening.”
“Very well.” He held out his hand.
“I hope he will be able to come,” said Sara. “I like his name.”
“You are not to fall in love with him,” said Christopher warningly, “or let him fall in love with you.”