Miss Christabel took the flowers and blushed prettily. She had dark hair and eyes and a fascinating, upturned little nose, and the kindest little mouth in the world.
“An Englishman would not have thought of that,” she said.
Aristide smiled in his roguish way and raised a deprecating hand.
“Oh, yes, he would. But he would not have had—what you call the cheek to do it.”
Miss Christabel laughed merrily, invited him to a seat by the fire, and comforted him with tea and hot muffins. The frank charm of his girl-hostess captivated Aristide and drove from his mind the riddle of his adventure. Besides, think of the Arabian Nights’ enchantment of the change from his lonely and shabby bed-sitting-room in the Rusholme Road to this fragrant palace with princess and all to keep him company! He watched the firelight dancing through her hair, the dainty play of laughter over her face, and decided that the brougham had transported him to Bagdad instead of Hampstead.
“You have the air of a veritable princess,” said he.
“I once met a princess—at a charity bazaar—and she was a most matter-of-fact, businesslike person.”
“Bah!” said Aristide. “A princess of a charity bazaar! I was talking of the princess in a fairytale. They are the only real ones.”
“Do you know,” said Miss Christabel, “that when men pay such compliments to English girls they are apt to get laughed at?”
“Englishmen, yes,” replied Aristide, “because they think over a compliment for a week, so that by the time they pay it, it is addled, like a bad egg. But we of Provence pay tribute to beauty straight out of our hearts. It is true. It is sincere. And what comes out of the heart is not ridiculous.”