"Oh, it was not at all gay, I assure you.... And even when I took to my heels after he had gone--for it was a matter of life or death, and I hadn't a minute to lose--oh, very dramatic, of course, for I ran away in disguise and I had a frightful time of it leaving France! Well, even then, at top speed and scared to death, I remembered the fountain of Marie de Médicis, and you. Don't be too deeply flattered. I remembered these items principally because they had caused my downfall."
"No. _I_ caused it! It was I who went out on the lawn. It was I who came across to see who was painting by moonlight. That began it--seeing you there--in moonlight bright enough to read by--bright enough to paint by. Oh, Garry--and you were _so_ good-looking! It was the moon--and the way you smiled at me. And they all were dancing inside, and _he_ was so big and fat and complacent, dancing away in there!... And so I fell a prey to folly."
"Was it really our escapade that--that ruined you?"
"Well--it was partly that. Pouf! It is over. And I am here. So are you. It's been nice to see you.... Please call our waiter." She glanced at her cheap, leather wrist watch.
As they rose and left the dining-room, he asked her if they were not to see each other again. A one-eyed man, close behind them, listened for her reply.
She continued to walk on slowly beside him without answering, until they reached the rotunda.
"Do you wish to see me again?" she enquired abruptly.
"I don't know, Garry.... I've been annoyed in New York--bothered--seriously.... I can't explain, but somehow--I don't seem to wish to begin a friendship with anybody...."
"Perhaps.... I don't know. After all--it doesn't matter. I think--I think we had better say good-bye--until some happy hazard--like to-day's encounter--" She hesitated, looked up at him, laughed:
"Where is your studio?" she asked mischievously.
The one-eyed man at their heels was listening.
There was a young moon in the southwest--a slender tracery in the April twilight--curved high over his right shoulder as he walked northward and homeward through the flare of Broadway.
His thoughts were still occupied with the pleasant excitement of his encounter with Thessalie Dunois; his mind and heart still responded to the delightful stimulation. Out of an already half-forgotten realm of romance, where, often now, he found it increasingly difficult to realise that he had lived for five happy years, a young girl had suddenly emerged as bodily witness, to corroborate, revive, and refresh his fading faith in the reality of what once had been.