"Oh, dear," she said, realizing what she had neglected. "My Christian name is Gretchen."
"Gretchen Haviland," he repeated slowly. "That has quite a satisfactory ring to it."
She complimented him on the quality of the tobacco when they were finished smoking. The hour was past nine o'clock, so they left the café and walked into the street. The fog had descended, lower and thicker than before. Occasional carriages appeared, rumbling quietly along. Tatters of mist blew sluggishly past the gaslights.
"I hope you shall allow me the pleasure of escorting you home this evening?" he asked as they walked.
"I should be honored."
He held out his elbow, and she slipped her gloved hand over his forearm. They walked in silence toward her rooming house, both enjoying the quiet of the evening. It seemed much warmer than before, and Gretchen thought a snow was about to fall. The air had the crisp scent of impending snow.
"I am delighted," Professor Bridwell said after a while, "that you were not busy this evening. Surely you must have so many friends. Other engagements."
"No," she answered, "I have very few friends. But surely—Antoine—there must be any number of ladies who would be far better company..."
"I'm too involved with my books, I fear. Studying all the time; preparing lectures—while the ladies run off with younger rakes." He glanced at her with a teasing half-smile. "I'll be thirty-five come February."
Gretchen laughed to hear him say such things. But she was pleased that she had guessed his age so nearly.