"I guessed," said I. I could not tell her of the petits pieds si adorés.
"You are an odd boy," she said. "Tell me all about yourself."
Unversed in woman's wiles I flushed with pleasure at her flattering interest. I did not perceive that it was an invitation to tell her all about Paragot. I related, however, artlessly the story of my life from the morning when I delivered my tattered copy of "Paradise Lost" to Paragot instead of the greasy washing book: and if my narrative glowed rosier with poetic illusion than the pages on which it has been set down, pray forgive nineteen for seeing things in a different light and perspective from a hundred and fifty. In my description of the Lotus Club, for instance, I felt instinctively that Madame de Verneuil would wince at the sound of tripe; I conveyed to her my own childish impression of the magnificence of Paragot's bedchamber, and the story of our wanderings became an Idyll of No Man's Land.
"And what is he doing now?" We had grown so confidential that we exchanged smiles.
"He is cultivating philosophy," said I.
Perhaps it was a sign of my development that I could detect a little spot of clay in my idol.
We had gone south, past the Observatoire to Montrouge, and had turned back before I realised that we were in the Boulevard Saint-Michel again near the prearranged end of my drive.
"Do you know why I am so glad to have met you to-day?" she asked. "I think—indeed I know I can trust you. I am in great trouble and I have an idea that your Master can help me."
She looked at me so earnestly, so wistfully, her face seemed to grow of a sudden so young and helpless, that all my boy's fantastic chivalry was roused.
"My Master would lay down his life for you, Madame," I cried. "And so would I."