The spring came at last, and with it vernissage at the Salon. Paul knew one or two men who were exhibiting, so he decided to pass his afternoon at the Palais de l'Industrie. The tens of thousands that thronged the galleries made picture-inspection difficult and tedious; but the crowd itself presented many compensating features of interest. Paul was hoping, too, he might see Miss Brooke there, as it was not impossible she might by now be back in Paris. Occasionally he fancied a girl resembled Miss Brooke, but when, after infinite striving, he had got close to his quarry, he found the points of likeness were but few. Once or twice the fair one eluded his pursuit, and got irretrievably swallowed up.
On his going to déjeuner the next day, at a little restaurant close by the school, where he was in the habit of dropping in at mid-day—he dined in the evening in state at a more pretentious establishment—there sat Miss Brooke herself at a table at the end of the room, her face towards the door. None of the usual clients had yet arrived, as it was a trifle early, and mademoiselle was distributing the newly-written menus among the various tables. In any case he must have caught sight of her at once, as the cluster of sharp red and black wings that shot up from one side of the little toque, which just seemed to rest on her hair, drew the eye at once. Her face showed glowing and bright, set above the dark mass of her stuff dress. As the door swung to she looked up from the menu she had been studying.
"How do you do, Mr. Middleton? You seem real scared to see me."
Her greeting seemed as calm and laughing as if they had but parted the day before, and Paul felt some vague dissatisfaction with it—he did not quite know why. It seemed, somehow, as if there were no romance between them at all, as if they were the merest acquaintances. Perhaps it was that the pent-up emotion of months of waiting needed more dramatic expression than this commonplace situation afforded.
He asked permission, and sat down opposite her, scarcely knowing what to say to her first.
"Can you tell me whether cervelle de veau is anything good to eat? It's the only unfamiliar thing on the menu, and my only hope."
He took the sheet of paper as she held it to him, but found the dish was equally unknown to him. They appealed to mademoiselle, who informed them, "C'est dans la tête."
"I wonder if she means 'brains.' I was hoping not to have to translate cervelle literally."
"I am not afraid of experimenting," suggested Paul.
"For my benefit. That is real kind of you. Whenever I've been curious about things with strange names, I've always had to order them, which is rather an expensive way of increasing one's French vocabulary."