“Perhaps,” said the Lady of the Rose. “Perhaps——”
Cartaret’s face brightened.
“That is,” explained his hostess, “if you will not try to teach me English, sir.”
CHAPTER X
AN ACCOUNT OF AN EMPTY PURSE AND A FULL HEART, IN THE COURSE OF WHICH THE AUTHOR BARELY ESCAPES TELLING A VERY OLD STORY
C’est état bizarre de folie tendre qui fait que nous n’avons plus de pensée que pour des actes d’adoration. On devient véritablement un possédé que hante une femme, et rien n’existe plus pour nous à côté d’elle.—De Maupassant: Un Soir.
The Lady’s “perhaps” meant “yes,” it seemed, for, when Cartaret called for her the next day, he found her ready to go to the Bois, and not the Lady only: hovering severely in the immediate background, like a thunder-cloud over a Spring landscape, was Chitta, wrapped in a shawl of marvelous lace, doubtless from her own country, and crowned with a brilliant bonnet unmistakably procured at some second-hand shop off the rue St. Jacques. The Lady noticed his expression of bewilderment and appeared a little annoyed by it.
“Of course,” she said, “Chitta accompanies us.”
Cartaret had to submit.
“Certainly,” said he.