’ She jumped up, and moved impatiently to the door. C below. . ” “Won’t you postpone the attempt, then?” he said gallantly, “until I have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not forget—seven-thirty, Café Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes. ’ The lashes fluttered demurely. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. ” She looked at him; his face, downcast and in profile, was handsome and strong. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption.
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