"Well, why are you going to Paris?"
She made the effect of shrugging her shoulders, but without actually moving them; her hands were lifted a little distance from her lap, then dropped. "Why go anywhere? In six weeks Hyacinthe should be in Paris to make his report; it is as well to go now."
"But it's winter in Paris, isn't it?" he urged. "And here it is so beautiful! You have six weeks. Why not spend them here?"
"Algiers?" she said, and shook her head slowly. "Algiers is nothing. You should not stay here long, yourself: there is so much for you to see."
"I shouldn't care to stay long," he told her gloomily, "if you aren't going to be here. Shall I come to Paris?"
"No, no! Nothing is there now but rain and snow, and it is dark by four in the afternoon. It would be wicked for you not to see Algeria. You should go to Bougie and to Biskra and the Desert and to Constantine and across into Tunisia and"
He interrupted her. "No, I don't care about it. If you're to be in Paris I shouldn't be interested in those places."
"You shouldn't?" She laughed, and with the tips of her fingers touched his shoulder indulgently,
