Again the girl coloured and laughed. “I’ve always heard that a Frenchman makes love to every woman he meets.”
“Naturally,” said Aristide. “If they are pretty. What else are pretty women for? Otherwise they might as well be hideous.”
“Oh!” said the girl, to whom this Provençal point of view had not occurred.
“So, if I make love to you, it is but your due.”
“I wonder what my fiancé would say if he heard you?”
“Your——?”
“My fiancé! There’s his photograph on the table beside you. He is six foot one, and so jealous!” she laughed again.
“The Turk!” cried Aristide, his swiftly-conceived romance crumbling into dust. Then he brightened up. “But when this six feet of muscle and egotism is absent, surely other poor mortals can glean a smile?”
“You will observe that I’m not frowning,” said Miss Christabel. “But you must not call my fiancé a Turk, for he’s a very charming fellow whom I hope you’ll like very much.”
Aristide sighed. “And the name of this thrice-blessed mortal?”