Part 51

He continued pleasantly—“Since I have sat here I have seen a lot of pretty girls walking alone on the terrace there,—and then you are alone too. Tell me, for I do not know French customs,—do you have the liberty of going to the theatre without a chaperone?”

For a long time she studied his face, and then with a trembling smile said, “Why do you ask me?”

“Because you must know, of course,” he said gaily.

“Yes,” she replied indifferently, “I know.”

He waited for an answer, but getting none, decided that perhaps she had misunderstood him.

“I hope you don’t think I mean to presume on our short acquaintance,” he began,—“in fact it is very odd but I don’t know your name. When Mr. Clifford presented me he only mentioned mine. Is that the custom in France?”

“It is the custom in the Latin Quarter,” she said with a queer light in her eyes. Then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly.

“You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all un peu sans gêne here in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian, and etiquette and ceremony are out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented you to me with small ceremony, and left us together with less,—only for that, and I am his friend, and I have many friends in the Latin Quarter, and we all know each other very well—and I am not studying art, but—but—”

“But what?” he said, bewildered.

“I shall not tell you,—it is a secret,” she said with an uncertain smile. On both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very bright.

Then in a moment her face fell. “Do you know Monsieur Clifford very intimately?”

“Not very.”

After a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale.

“My name is Valentine—Valentine Tissot. Might—might I ask a service of you on such very short acquaintance?”

“Oh,” he cried, “I should be honoured.”

“It is only this,” she said gently, “it is not much. Promise me not to speak to Monsieur Clifford about me. Promise me that you will speak to no one about me.”

“I promise,” he said, greatly puzzled.

She laughed nervously. “I wish to remain a mystery. It is a caprice.”

“But,” he began, “I had wished, I had hoped that you might give Monsieur Clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house.”

“My—my house!” she repeated.

“I mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to your family.”

The change in the girl’s face shocked him.

“I beg your pardon,” he cried, “I have hurt you.”

And as quick as a flash she understood him because she was a woman.

“My parents are dead,” she said.

Presently he began again, very gently.

“Would it displease you if I beg you to receive me? It is the custom?”

“I cannot,” she answered. Then glancing up at him, “I am sorry; I should like to; but believe me. I cannot.”