He laughed.
"What are you laughing at?" she demanded, thinking he was making fun of her.
"I was thinking of how you fitted in the drawing of a late 17th century stage set I was looking at the other day. A drawing of the palace of Versailles as it was then with a contraption for letting down Venus from the clouds."
"Oh! Did they have such big productions then?" she said, taken unaware by the compliment.
"Max Reinhardt and Ziegfeld aren't in it by comparison." There had been a curious change in her. She was too joyless in her success. As though, and this was surely only imagination, she had gone through a subduing revelation, weighting her spirit.
"I wish I could see Versailles—but I guess I won't have time."
"There's an outdoor theatre there that would be perfect for you. It's made of shells."
"I'd love to see that at least before I go back. Is Versailles far from here?"
"An hour by bus, if you had the time."
"I have to be at Lanvin's at eleven. Maybe I can go tomorrow, I'd just like to walk around now and see something of Paris."
"This is one of the best times of the day. In a few hours it will be hot and noisy. So, if you like, why don't we walk now?"
He was trying to get rid of her. "I wouldn't want to take you from your work," she said.
"I'd like nothing better than to be taken from work by you." A surge of happiness enveloped her. "Let's," she said.
"I'll keep an eye on the time," he said with a lightness he hadn't felt in years.
"Oh that!" she said recklessly.
Dark-red shutters rumbled up disclosing the meanings of Librairie—Pâtisserie—Epicerie—Chausseur—Loterie Nationale—cubbyholes catering to tenants above in the flat old plaster buildings.
"Look at that little boy dragging a loaf of that good-looking bread on the sidewalk, and that woman in the flapping slippers. Don't they know that's unsanitary?"
"The sun heals."
"Are you going to stay here forever?"
"I don't know. I came for a cure and I'm afraid of a relapse." He was never serious at the right time. "I wish you'd speak English," she said tartly.
