“Who is there?”—She spoke in French now, but he would have known her voice had she talked the language of Grand Street.
“Cartaret,” he answered.
She opened the door. A ray of light beat its way through a grimy window in the hall to welcome her—Cartaret was sure that no light had passed that window for years and years—and rested on the beauty of her pure face, her calm eyes, her blue-black hair.
“Good morning,” said the Lady of the Rose.
It sounded wonderful to him. When he replied “Good morning”—and could think of nothing else to say—the phrase sounded less remarkable.
She waited a moment. She looked a little doubtful. She said:
“You perhaps wanted Chitta?”
Were her eyes laughing? Her lips were serious, but he was uncertain of her eyes.
“Certainly not,” said he.
“Oh, you wanted me?”