The waiter brought the supper and laid it on the table between them.

“Eat and drink first,” said Paul Ravenel, as he poured the red wine into her glass. “Then we will talk.”

“You shall tell me your name before I begin.”

“Paul—Paul Ravenel,” said he, and she repeated the name once with her big, serious eyes fixed upon him and a second time with a little grimace which wrinkled up her nose and gave to her whole face a flash of gaiety. She drew her chair to the table with an anticipation and relish which filled Paul with pity and tugged sharply at the strings of his heart. She ate her supper with enjoyment and daintiness.

“A cigarette?” said Paul, offering her his case as soon as she had finished.

“Thank you! Oh, but I was hungry!”

She lit it and leaning back in her chair smoked whilst the waiter cleared the supper away and set the bottle and the glasses between them on the table. Then Marguerite leaned forward, her face between her hands, her elbows on the table.

“Paul!” she said with a smile, as if the name was a fruit and delightful to taste.

“I saw you,” she continued in a low voice, “when you first came into the room, you and your friend. I thought at once that you would come for me as you did. I called to you—yes, even then—oh, with all my strength—quietly—to myself. But I called so earnestly that I was afraid that I had cried my little prayer out loud. And then when I lost sight of you out here in the dark I was afraid. I didn’t see you come in again. I only knew suddenly that you were standing behind me.”

Paul Ravenel watched her as she spoke, her great eyes shining, her face delicately white in that dim light. He had no doubt that she spoke in all frankness and simplicity the truth. Were they not once more alone, shut off by a wall of dreams from all the world? Paul leaned forward and took her hand.

“I did not need to hear you call, Marguerite. I saw you, too, at once. My friend had heard of you, was looking for you. I saw you. I told him where you were”; and for a moment the girl’s face clouded over and the spell was broken.

So far Paul Ravenel had spoken in French. Now he asked in English:

“Why do they call you the American?”

Marguerite Lambert stared at him with her eyes 

 Prev. P 50/191 next