He wished to prove that he had only been meditating.
“Yes, my dear, it’s a charming evening,” he replied; “these Italian nights certainly keep up their reputation.”
Ten minutes later the carriage drew up, and M. Charnot shook hands with me before the door of his hotel.
“Many thanks, my dear young sir, for this delightful drive home! I hope we shall meet again. We are off to Florence to-morrow; is there anything I can do for you there?”
“No, thank you.”
Mademoiselle Charnot gave me a slight bow. I watched her mount the first few steps of the staircase, with one hand shading her eyes from the glare of the gaslights, and the other holding up her wraps, which had come unfolded and were falling around her.