She came towards him slowly, and now he remarked that she had a grudge
against Fate; her pretty lips were compressed, her beautiful eyes
gloomy with grievance, the fairness of her brow was darkened by a
frown. "Well," mused Tricotrin, "though the object of my visit is
educational, the exigencies of my situation clearly compel me to ask
this young lady to direct me somewhere. Can I summon up enough English
before she has passed?"
It was a trying moment, for already she was nearly abreast of him.
Forgetful of Sanquereau's instructions, as well as of most of the
phrases that had been committed to memory, the poet swept off his hat,
and stammered, "Mees, I beg your pardon!"
She turned the aggrieved eyes to him inquiringly. Although she had
paused, she made no answer. Was his accent so atrocious as all that?
For a second they regarded each other dumbly, while a blush of
embarrassment mantled the young man's cheeks. Then, with a little
gesture of apology, the girl said in French--
"I do not speak English, monsieur."
"Oh, le bon Dieu be praised!" cried Tricotrin, for all the world as if
he had been back on the boulevard Rochechouart. "I was dazed with
travel, or I should have recognized you were a Frenchwoman. Did you,
too, leave Paris last night, mademoiselle?"
"Ah, no," said the girl pensively. "I have been in London for months. I
hoped to meet a friend who wrote that she would arrive this morning,
but,"--she sighed--"she has not come!"
"She will arrive to-night instead, no doubt; I should have no anxiety.
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