His extensive reply was more favorable and pointed than she would have thought possible. It pleased her, and confirmed a great deal that she had sensed about him. "Then you won't mind at all if I join you?" "By all means," he returned without hesitation, holding the silver case toward her. She deftly removed a cigarette, and tamping it upon her fingernail twice, held it out for him to light. She bent back her wrist and let it dangle between her long fingers while he lit his own cigarette. "Now that we've learned all about me," she said, blowing a thin stream of smoke away, "perhaps you'll tell me about yourself, Professor." "Please," he said, setting the ashtray in the middle of the table, "do call me Antoine. We needn't be so formal, I think." She laughed quietly. "Antoine." "My mother was French," he stated quietly. Gretchen caught his use of the past tense, but did not inquire further. "No doubt she is the source of your excellent French." "Maman did speak French to me as a child—but my French is quite poor for anything but domestic conversation." "From what little I speak," she replied, drawing on her cigarette, "you sounded quite fluent." She let the smoke linger on her lips, then blew it away softly. "Why thank you for the compliment...Miss Haviland." "Oh, dear," she said, realizing what she had neglected. "My Christian name is Gretchen." "Gretchen Haviland," he repeated slowly. "That has quite a satisfactory ring to it." She complimented him on the quality of the tobacco when they were finished smoking. The hour was past nine o'clock, so they left the café and walked into the street. The fog had descended, lower and thicker than before. Occasional carriages appeared, rumbling quietly along. Tatters of mist blew sluggishly past the gaslights. "I hope you shall allow me the pleasure of escorting you home this evening?" he asked as they walked. "I should be honored." He held out his elbow, and she slipped her gloved hand over his forearm. They walked in
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