"Very well," said Stainton, none too willingly. "You ask her, then: the French verb 'to sit' always was too much for me."
Muriel offered the invitation; the visitor laughingly accepted; another bottle was ordered and, while Jim, unable to understand what was being said, leaned over the rail and looked at the dancers, his wife and the vermilion-lipped intruder engaged in an encounter of small-talk that Muriel began by enjoying as an improvement at once of her French and her knowledge of the world.
The visitor, however, so managed the conversation that, though she did give Muriel her address in a little street off the Boulevard Clichy, it was she who was gathering information. She was extremely polite, but extremely inquisitive.
"You have been long in Paris, is it not?" she asked.
"No, not long; only two weeks," said Muriel.
"But in France—no?"
"We came direct to Paris."
"But you speak French well, mademoiselle."
The compliment pleased Muriel to the extent that she missed the title applied to her.
"My knowledge of French is very small," she replied. "I studied the language in America."