“And we had dinner at Vian’s afterwards,” she reminded him, and then, after a pause: “Wasn’t the soup awful?”
“Ah, but the string-beans were an event,” he asserted. “And that evening, I remember, there was a moon over the Bois, and we sat under the trees. Have you forgotten that?”
“I don’t think that would be very easy,” she said softly.
“And we went through the Louvre the next day,” he said eagerly, “the whole Louvre in an hour, and the loveliest picture I saw there was—you.”
Denby glanced up with a frown as Lambart’s gentle footfall was heard, and rose to his feet a trifle embarrassed by this intrusion. Lambart came to a respectful pause at Miss Cartwright’s side.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but there is a gentleman to see you.” She took a card that was on the tray he held before her.
“To see me?” she cried, startled, gazing at the card. Denby, watching her closely, saw her grow, as he thought, pale. “Ask him to come in. Mr. Denby,” she said, “will you forgive me?”
“Surely,” he assented, walking toward the great stairway. “I have to dress, anyway.”
“Your room is at the head of the stairs,” Lambart reminded him. “All your luggage is taken in, sir.”