"Haven't you been playing this morning?"
"No."
"Too tired after the party last night?"
"No."
"I was wondering—but I suppose you've far more amusing things to do than to come for a walk with me this afternoon."
In those few words the whole situation trembled as in a balance. If she said Yes, much might follow; if No, then resentment would be my portion.
We continued to ascend the high-walled street, past tall garden gates and notice-boards—"A Vendre," "Locations," "Agence Boutin." We passed Beausejour, Primavera, Les Cyclamens....
Then for the first time she looked sideways at me.
"I should like to," she said.
I was still angry with myself and him. He was probably right in refusing the only definite suggestion I had found to make, namely, that he should permit me to tell my host and hostess the whole story. But if his alternative was to lie in wait for her in the streets and shops of a French summer resort and to hang about the open windows of the house at night, I felt very strongly about it. He was going to be wily and masterful, was he? He, swaying on a tightrope of time, was going to claim the treatment of a normal man? Well, that remained to be seen. The cold shoulder for a day or two might bring him to a more reasonable view. Anyway, after our encounter in the Bazaar, he could hardly pretend not to know my mind.