"How strange it seems," she said at last--"does it not?--that you and I should be sitting here like this! I had no idea, when we bade each other good-bye in Norway, that we should ever meet again."
"I felt certain of it," Browne replied, but he failed to add why he was so sure. "Is it settled how long you remain in England?"
"I do not think so," she answered. "We may be here some weeks; we may be only a few days. It all depends upon Madame Bernstein."
"Upon Madame Bernstein?" he said, with some surprise.
"Yes," she answered; "she makes our arrangements. You have no idea how busy she is."
Browne certainly had no idea upon that point, and up to that moment he was not sure that he was at all interested; now, however, since it appeared that madame controlled the girl's movements, she became a matter of overwhelming importance to him.
For more than an hour they continued to chat; then Browne rose to bid her good-bye.
"Would you think me intrusive if I were to call upon you again?" he asked as he took her hand.
"Do so by all means, if you like," she answered, with charming frankness. "I shall be very glad to see you."
Then an idea occurred to him--an idea so magnificent, so delightful, that it almost took his breath away.
"Would you think me impertinent if I inquired how you and Madame Bernstein amuse yourselves in the evenings? Have you been to any theatres or to the opera?"
The girl shook her head. "I have never been inside a theatre in London," she replied.
"Then perhaps I might be able to persuade you to let me take you to one," he answered. "I might write to Madame Bernstein and arrange an evening. Would she care about it, do you think?"
"I am sure she would," she answered. "And I know that I should enjoy it immensely. It is very kind of you to ask us."
"It is very kind of you to promise to come," he said gratefully. "Then I will arrange it for to-morrow night if possible. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," she answered, and held out her little hand to him for the second time.
When the front door had closed behind him and he was fairly out in the foggy street once more, Browne set off along the pavement on his return journey, swinging his umbrella and whistling like a schoolboy. To a crusty old bachelor his state of mind would have appeared inexplicable. There was no sort of doubt about it, however, that he was happy; he walked as if he were treading on air. It was a good suggestion, that one about the theatre, he said to himself, and he would take care that they enjoyed themselves. He would endeavour to obtain the best box at the opera; they were playing _Lohengrin_ at the time, he remembered. He would send one of his own carriages to meet them, and it should take them home again. Then a still more brilliant idea occurred to him. Why should he not arrange a nice little dinner at some restaurant first? Not one of your flash dining-places but a quiet, comfortable little place--Lallemand's, for instance, where the cooking is irreproachable, the wine and waiting faultless, and the company who frequent it beyond suspicion. And yet another notion, and as it occurred to him he laughed aloud in the public street.