"I will tell him," said Elsie.
Then Glynn knew he ought to go; but he could not tear himself away immediately. It was so charming, this quiet confidential talk; so intoxicating to see that her pale, anxious face had brightened considerably; certainly her composure, in the midst of her depression and uneasiness, left no room for any flattering conviction that he had impressed himself upon her heart or imagination. So far all was right; she treated him as a friend, an honorable gentleman, in whom she might trust, and nothing more.
A little further talk of the books Glynn had left with her, of her wish to leave Paris, and revisit the farmhouse, where most of her childish days had been spent, and Glynn felt he must not stay longer.
"Shall you make any stay?" she asked, as she gave him her hand at parting.
"A week or two, perhaps a month; I am not sure."
"Then good-morning—au revoir."
The rest of the day was strange and dream-like. He wandered through well-known places, seeking acquaintance to draw him from the puzzle of his own thoughts, and finding none, till towards six o'clock, passing Tortoni's, he found himself face to face with Deering, who was seated at one of the little round tables eating an ice.
"Hullo, Glynn! I thought you were in London?"
"Well, you see I am in Paris."
"When did you arrive?"