‘Stephen . . . oh, I’m so glad! But where on earth are you?’
‘At my house in Paris—35, Rue Jacob.’
‘But I don’t understand, I thought . . .’
‘Yes, I know, but I’ve lived here for ages—since before the war. I’ve just got your letter, sent back from England. Funny, isn’t it? Why not come to dinner to-night if you’re free—eight o’clock.’
‘I say! May I really?’
‘Of course . . . come and dine with my friend and me.’
‘What number?’
‘Thirty-five—35, Rue Jacob.’
‘I’ll be there on the actual stroke of eight!’
‘That’s right—good-bye, Martin.’