It was characteristic of Eric that he never said anything suitable to occasions. He kissed her cheek, and then said, holding her at arm’s length and looking at her:
“You must come and dine with me. What do you say to a sole and a broiled chicken somewhere?”
But Connie felt that something more was due to the situation, so she clung to his arm and found—or seemed to find—speech difficult.
“Eric! Is it really you? My God! After all these years! Oh, Eric!”
“Nearly twenty, isn’t it? And thirty or more since we broke the Dresden group there. Go and put your hat on. What a pretty dress!”
“You like it?” She turned about with something of her old grace and coquetry. “You were always quick to notice nice things. But how did you know where to find me, and why did you come? This seems like a dream to me. And you’re still so good-looking!”
“Thank you, my dear. No one has ever told me that. It is charming of you. I came to see you. Mother guessed you would be here. And now go and put on your hat, for I’m very hungry.”
“In a moment. I want to look at you.… I’d almost forgotten I had a brother. But how did you know I was in Paris at all? That meddlesome old Stephen de Lisle, I suppose, bless him!” Then her beautiful voice deepened. “Eric, I’ve got very old, haven’t I? Tell me the truth.”
Eric told it in his own way.
“I’m afraid I never think about age,” he said, “so it’s no good asking me. I think you look worried. Come, we’ll dine early. There’s a great deal to talk about. And don’t change. I like you in that.”