Routledge did not answer. He was smiling in a strange, shy way, as few men smile after thirty. Moreover, he was holding fast to the hand so eagerly offered.
“Do forgive my staring at you,” he said at last. “I’ve been away a very long time. In India——”
“You may stare, Routledge-san. Men coming home from the wars may do as they will,” she laughed.
“Finding you here in Paris is immense, Miss Noreen. I was planning to keep the way open from Bookstalls to Cheer Street—to ride out with you possibly, watch you paint things, and have talks——”
“You’ll stay in London for a time, Routledge-san?”
“Yes, until you and Jerry appeal to the Review to start a war to be rid of me.”
She did not need to tell him that she was glad. “Come, let’s go outside. It’s like an enchanted castle in here—like living over one of your past lives in all this yellow stillness.”
She could not have explained what made her say this. Routledge liked the idea, and put it away to be tried in the crucible of solitude. “Where did you leave father?” she asked when they were in the street.
“Away up in Bhurpal—two or three days before we were all called in.”
He dreaded the next question, but, understanding that it would trouble him, Noreen pushed into the heart of the subject without asking.