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“I–I slept, but the sun awoke me.”

“I could not sleep,” she said, and her eyes seemed, for a moment, touched with an indefinable shadow. Then, smiling, “I am so glad–I seemed to know you were coming. Don’t laugh, I believe in dreams.”

“Did you really dream of,–of my being here?”

“I think I was awake when I dreamed it,” she admitted. Then for a time they were mute, acknowledging by silence the happiness of being together. And after all their silence was eloquent, for faint smiles, and glances born of their thoughts, crossed and recrossed, until lips moved and words were formed, which seemed almost superfluous. What they said was not very profound. Perhaps the most valuable jewel that fell from Hastings’ lips bore direct reference to breakfast.

“I have not yet had my chocolate,” she confessed, “but what a material man you are.”

“Valentine,” he said impulsively, “I wish,–I do wish that you would,–just for this once,–give me the whole day,–just for this once.”

“Oh dear,” she smiled, “not only material, but selfish!”

“Not selfish, hungry,” he said, looking at her.

“A cannibal too; oh dear!”

“Will you, Valentine?”

“But my chocolate–“

“Take it with me.”

“But dejeuner–“

“Together, at St. Cloud.”

“But I can’t–“

“Together,–all day,–all day long; will you, Valentine?”

She was silent.

“Only for this once.”

Again that indefinable shadow fell across her eyes, and when it was gone she sighed. “Yes,–together, only for this once.”

“All day?” he said, doubting his happiness.

“All day,” she smiled; “and oh, I am so hungry!”

He laughed, enchanted.

“What a material young lady it is.”

On the Boulevard St. Michel there is a Cremerie painted white and blue outside, and neat and clean as a whistle inside. The auburn-haired young woman who speaks French like a native, and rejoices in the name of Murphy, smiled at them as they entered, and tossing a fresh napkin over the zinc tete-a-tete table, whisked before them two cups of chocolate and a basket full of crisp, fresh croissons.

The primrose-coloured pats of butter, each stamped with a shamrock in relief, seemed saturated with the fragrance of Normandy pastures.

“How delicious!” they said in the same breath, and then laughed at the coincidence.

“With but a single thought,” he began.

“How absurd!” she cried with cheeks all rosy. “I’m thinking I’d like a croisson.”

“So am I,” he replied triumphant, “that proves it.”

Then they had a quarrel; she accusing him of behaviour unworthy of a child in arms, and he denying it, and bringing counter charges, until Mademoiselle Murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croisson was eaten under a flag of truce. Then they rose, and she took his arm with a bright nod to Mile. Murphy, who cried them a merry: “Bonjour, madame! bonjour, monsieur!” and watched them hail a passing cab and drive away. “Dieu! qu’il est beau,” she sighed, adding after a moment, “Do they be married, I dunno,–ma foi ils ont bien l’air.”

The cab swung around the rue de Medici, turned into the rue de Vaugirard, followed it to where it crosses the rue de Rennes, and taking that noisy thoroughfare, drew up before the Gare Montparnasse. They were just in time for a train and scampered up the stairway and out to the cars as the last note from the starting-gong rang through the arched station. The guard slammed the door of their compartment, a whistle sounded, answered by a screech from the locomotive, and the long train glided from the station, faster, faster, and sped out into the morning sunshine. The summer wind blew in their faces from the open window, and sent the soft hair dancing on the girl’s forehead.

“We have the compartment to ourselves,” said Hastings.

She leaned against the cushioned window-seat, her eyes bright and wide open, her lips parted. The wind lifted her hat, and fluttered the ribbons under her chin. With a quick movement she untied them, and, drawing a long hat-pin from her hat, laid it down on the seat beside her. The train was flying.

The colour surged in her cheeks, and, with each quick-drawn breath, her breath rose and fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. Trees, houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a mist of telegraph poles.