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.
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