After putting on his thick overcoat and one glove he had suddenly darted to the dressing-table for his watch, which he was forgetting.  Christine’s face showed sympathetic satisfaction that he had remembered in time, simultaneously implying that even if he had not remembered, the watch would have been perfectly safe till he called for it.  The hour was five minutes to midnight.  He was just going.  Christine had dropped a little batch of black and red Treasury notes on to the dressing-table with an indifferent if not perhaps an impatient air, as though she held these financial sequels to be a stain on the ideal, a tedious necessary, a nuisance, or simply negligible.

She kissed him goodbye, and felt agreeably fragile and soft within the embrace of his huge, rough overcoat.  And she breathed winningly, delicately, apologetically into his ear: 

“Thou wilt give something to the servant?” Her soft eyes seemed to say, “It is not for myself that I am asking, is it?”

He made an easy philanthropic gesture to indicate that the servant would have no reason to regret his passage.

He opened the door into the little hall, where the fat Italian maid was yawning in an atmosphere comparatively cold, and then, in a change of purpose, he shut the door again.

“You do not know how I knew you could not have been in London very long,” he said confidentially.

“No.”

“Because I saw you in Paris one night in July—­at the Marigny Theatre.”

“Not at the Marigny.”

“Yes.  The Marigny.”

“It is true.  I recall it.  I wore white and a yellow stole.”

“Yes.  You stood on the seat at the back of the Promenade to see a contortionist girl better, and then you jumped down.  I thought you were delicious—­quite delicious.”

“Thou flatterest me.  Thou sayest that to flatter me.”

“No, no.  I assure you I went to the Marigny every night for five nights afterwards in order to find you.”

“But the Marigny is not my regular music-hall.  Olympia is my regular music-hall.”

“I went to Olympia and all the other halls, too, each night.”

“Ah, yes!  Then I must have left Paris.  But why, my poor friend, why didst thou not speak to me at the Marigny?  I was alone.”

“I don’t know.  I hesitated.  I suppose I was afraid.”

“Thou!”

“So to-night I was terribly content to meet you.  When I saw that it was really you I could not believe my eyes.”

She understood now his agitation on first accosting her in the Promenade.  The affair very pleasantly grew more serious for her.  She liked him.  He had nice eyes.  He was fairly tall and broadly built, but not a bit stout.  Neither dark nor blond.  Not handsome, and yet ... beneath a certain superficial freedom, he was reserved.  He had beautiful manners.  He was refined, and he was refined in love; and yet he knew something.  She