Chapter Seven.
The Sylph of the Terror.
“Ah! you in England, here, are always débonnaire, while we in Charleroi are always triste, always.”
The dark-eyed, handsome girl sighed, lying lazily back among the cushions of the boat, allowing the rudder-lines to hang so loosely that our course became somewhat erratic. I had been spending one of the hot afternoons of last July gossiping and drinking tea on the riverside lawn of a friend’s house at Datchet, and now at sunset had taken for a row this pretty Belgian whom my hostess had introduced as Cécile Demage.
“Is this your first visit to London?” I asked, noticing she spoke English fluently, but with a pleasing accent.
“Oh no,” she replied, laughing. “I have been here already two times. I like your country so very much.”
“And you come here for pleasure—just for a little holiday?”
“Yes,” she answered, lifting her long lashes for an instant. “Of course I travel for—for pleasure always.”