"But you speak French like a Frenchman," cried Elodie.
"It is my sole claim, Madame," said I, "to your consideration."
She laughed, obviously pleased, and invited me to sit. The waiter came up. What would I have? I murmured "Amer Picon--Curaçoa," the most delectable ante-meal beverage left in France now that absinthe is as extinct as the stuff wherewith the good Vercingetorix used to gladden his captains after a successful bout with Cæsar. Elodie laughed again and called me a true Parisian. I made the regulation reply to the compliment. I could see that we became instant friends.
"Mais, mon cher ami," said Lackaday, "you haven't answered my question. What are you doing here in Clermont-Ferrand?"
"Didn't I write to you?"
"No----"
I hadn't. I had meant to--just as I had meant to write to Auriol Dayne.
I wonder whether, in that Final Court from which I have not heard of any theologian suggesting the possibility of Appeal, they will bring up against me all the unanswered letters of my life? If they do, then certainly shall I be a Condemned Spirit.
I explained airily--just as I have explained to you.
"Coincidences of the heart, Madame," said I.