Becker removed the pipe from his mouth. “I have seen her before,” he said simply.
“Oh!” Philip regarded him curiously.
“It was at church. In the evening while I was at my practise.” He paused abruptly.
“I am afraid Perkins is in a fair way to make a precious ass of himself,” Philip observed. “He is at the beginning of a bad business and ought to saw off. Perkins is all right, you know, but even his own mother would have to admit that he is freckled and fat. If he goes to falling in love with his cousin—”
By a sharp decisive blow Franz knocked the ashes from his pipe: “I shall have to say good night, Philip. I don't propose to send you home but—”
“Oh, that's all right. What's wrong? Have I said anything I shouldn't?”
“Shall I go down or will you be able to find your way out by yourself?” Franz asked.
He held open the door and Philip passed from the room. At the foot of the stairs he turned and called back his good night. Becker answered him cordially enough. When he found himself in the street Philip came to a stand.
“I declare he fairly put me out. As I live,” he finally cried, “as I live he is in love with her himself.”
During the succeeding weeks they both saw much of Madame Dennie.