“Well,” he said, “suppose I did come over on something more than pleasure, what do you want to know concerning it? And why do you want to know?”
“Shall we say feminine curiosity?” she returned.
He shook his head. “I think not. There must be something more vital than a mere whim.”
“Perhaps there is,” she conceded, leaning forward, “I want us to be friends, really good friends; I regard it as a test of friendship. Why won’t you tell me?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Shall we say man’s intuition? Oh, I know it’s not supposed to be as good as a woman’s, but sometimes it’s much more accurate.”
“So you can’t trust me?” she said, steadily trying to read his thoughts.
“Can I?” he asked, gazing back at her just as steadily.
“Don’t you think you can?” she fenced adroitly.
“If you do,” he said meaningly.
“But aren’t we friends,” she asked him, “pledged that night under the moon in the Bois? You see I, too, have memories of Paris.”