“Take it with me.”
“But déjeuner———”
“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 Crémerie 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 tête-à-tête table, whisked before them two cups of chocolate and a basket full of crisp, fresh croissons.
The primrose-colored 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.”
