He spoke truly. It was a matter of love, and Mme Coinçon's hostility did not count.
"Word of honour," he added looking into the smiling ironical face.
Love had entered very little into his serious scheme of life. He had had his entanglements of course. There was Francine Dumesnil, who had fluttered into the Cirque Rocambeau as a slack wire artist, and after making him vows of undying affection, had eloped a week afterwards with Hans Petersen, the only man left who could stand on the bare back of a horse that was not thick with resin. But the heart of Andrew Lackaday had nothing to do with the heart of Francine Dumesnil. He had agreed with the aged Madame Rocambeau. Sales types, both of them.
"If it had been chagrin d'amour--sorrow of love, Mademoiselle," said he, "I should not have been so insensible to the presence of two such charming young ladies."
"We are polite, all the same," she remarked approvingly.
She sipped her grenadine. Having nothing further to say he sipped his beer. Presently she said:
"I saw you this afternoon at the boite." He looked at her with a touch of interest. No one would allude to the music-hall as the "box" except a fellow professional engaged there.
"You too?" he asked.
She nodded. She belonged to a troupe of dancing girls. As they were the first number, they got away early. She and her friend had gone for a walk and found this restaurant. It was gay, wasn't it? He said, soberly:
"You were dancing at rehearsal this morning. You've danced at the music-hall this afternoon, you'll be dancing again this evening--why do you dance here?"