“I knew you were in Paris, and came here specially to meet you, Mr Rolfe,” she said at last. “I’m afraid you must think me very dreadful to purposely compel you to apologise and speak to me.”
“Not at all. Only—well, I think you know you have a rather unfair advantage of me. You ought to give me your name,” he urged.
“I have my own reasons for not doing so,” she laughed. “It is sufficient for you to know that I am your friend.”
“And a very charming little friend, too,” he laughed. “I only wish all my friends were so dainty as yourself.”
“Ah! so you are a flatterer—eh?” she said, reproving him with a smile.
“Not flattery—but the truth,” he declared, filled with curiosity as to whom she might be. Why, he wondered, had she sought him? Perhaps if he described her at the office they had just left, she might be known there.
Though out of the season, there was still life and movement in the Rue de Rivoli, as there always is between the Magasins du Louvre and the Rue Castiglione. The tweeds and blouses of the Cook’s tourists were in evidence as usual, and the little midinette tripped gaily through the throng.
At last they entered the gate of the public gardens, which in the afternoons are given over to nurses in white caps and children with air-balls, and, walking some distance, still chatting, presently found a seat in full view of the Quai with its traffic and the sluggish Seine beyond.
Then as he seated himself beside her she, with her sunshade held behind her head, threw herself back slightly and laughed saucily in his face, displaying her red lips and even, pearly teeth.
“Isn’t this a rather amusing meeting?” she asked, with tantalising air. “I know you are dying to know who I am. Just think. Have you never seen me before?”