of Marguerite and Juliette who paid homage to the suave Gounod, and with an unwonted trepidation, almost giddiness, Grover softly approached and laid a hand on her shoulder.
Without fuss she drew away, and turned to face the intruder, then with a comical stare that transformed her from an elegant young mondaine to a flushed, excited, bright-eyed girl, she relaxed and he kissed her, "park and all" as Rhoda expressed it, straightening her hat after the assault.
There were quick, confused explanations. Hadn't he got her letter? She had sent a pneumatique inviting him to lunch with her and the Pearns.
Grover had not received it.
"Didn't you spend the night at home?" she asked, teasingly.
He was almost frightened at the realization that he almost hadn't! and he gave her an ambiguous smile. There had been nights, a few, that he had spent away from the rue Truffaut, and Rhoda was doubtless seeing at a glance that he was no longer the innocent little boy,—yet her knowledge of that, strangely, blessedly, didn't dim the steady affectionateness of her regard. He hadn't thought to look for any mail that morning; Mme. Choiseul had taken to her bed with a recurrence of blotches, which might account for his failure to receive the note.
"As a matter of fact I almost didn't write it," Rhoda added.
