She had relapsed into silence after disposing of the slovenly meal he had induced the landlady to provide. The only thing that seemed to worry her was the superfluous dirt that adorned the cups.
At length she spoke:
"And what sort of a place is this Barcelona?"
"L'entresol de l'enfer," answered Emile curtly. "What are your people doing to allow you to come here alone?"
"They don't know I am here. I ran away, you see. If I get on well,
I'll write and let them know, and if not—"
"Alors?"
"Oh, I don't know. But I will get on. Don't you think I ought to make a success at the Hippodrome?"
Emile ignored the naïve conceit of the last remark. "But what are you doing at the Hippodrome at all?" he demanded.
"I am riding," she answered with an elfish smile in which her eyes took no part.
"Obviously! What are you going to do about déjeuner? The landlady won't bring you up all your meals."