"Indeed, I do not."
"Nor play--not even 'simple little things,' and 'coon-songs'?"
"Nothing."
"God be praised!" he returned with a sort of whimsical reverence, in
French. "Then you are perfect."
"Indeed I am not. Oh, I _really_ am not!" Before she knew what he was
about to do, he had kissed her forehead, and then, as the train stopped,
he rushed at the window.
"But where are you going?" he cried, so rapidly that she hardly
understood him. "Why are you--why are we both--going away from London?
We must go _home_--to my house--to my wife."
"I am going to make a visit----"
"_Mais non, mais non, mais non_--come, there is a train going to
London--hurry, we will go back. You will telegraph your friends. This
evening--the betrothal evening, you must spend with us. Come, hurry, or
we shall be too late."
"But I cannot, it is impossible," she protested weakly, as, he took her
dressing-case and umbrella from the seat, after scrambling into his
furry coat. "My friend is expecting me!"
"Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta! Come, _ma fille, bella signorina_, the train is
just there--I will telegraph your friend. Let me help you, _comme ca, ca
y est_!"
And almost before she knew what had happened, they were in the other
train speeding back to town.
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