“You know I never smoke.”
“I wish you would. It’s so chummy. Anyway, sit down. That’s right. Your hair’s lovely when it glistens in the sunshine. You know, you’re looking ever so much better already. Your chin is getting round, and there is actually a delicate rose colour in your cheeks. Your face is far more English than French. Some day if you’ll pose for me, I’ll paint you. This coffee’s awfully nice....” As he rattled on in his gay manner, the girl listened with a grave smile. There was a curious look in her eyes, a tenderness almost maternal.
“I say,” he went on, “I didn’t tell you I went to the Pension Paoli yesterday. I had a talk with Terese, the black-eyed Terese. She gave me some news.”
“Yes, what?”
“You remember that unsavoury sort of a chap who made such a bad impression on everybody,—I used to call him the Rat.”
“I never liked him.”
“Well, do you know what the mystery was that seemed to surround him? The poor harmless fellow was a priest, a curé who had slipped away from his flock, dressed in everyday clothes, and was having a good time. I don’t blame him, poor devil. He wanted to be free, to taste life just once, before going back to his black skirts and his prayer-book. I expect he’s doing bitter penance for it now. He was recognized by an old abbé and there was no end of a row. He was haled off by two burly priests, crying like a child.”
“It just shows how one should never judge people.”
“And you remember those two Swede women?”
“They enjoyed eating so much.”