“You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all un peu sans gêne here in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian and etiquette and ceremony are out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented you to me with small ceremony, and left us together with less,—only for that, and I am his friend, and I have many friends in the Latin Quarter, and we all know each other very well—and I am not studying art but—but———”
“But what?” he said, bewildered.
“I shall not tell you,—it is a secret,” she said with an uncertain smile. On both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very bright.
Then in a moment her face fell. “Do you know Monsieur Clifford very intimately?”
“Not very.”
After a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale.
“My name is Valentine—Valentine Tissot. Might—might I ask a service of you on such very short acquaintance?”
“Oh,” he cried, “I should be honored.”
“It is only this,” she said gently, “it is not much. Promise me not to speak to Monsieur Clifford about me. Promise me that you will speak to no one about me.”
“I promise,” he said, greatly puzzled.
She laughed nervously. “I wish to remain a mystery. It is a caprice.”
“But,” he began, “I had wished, I had hoped that you might give Monsieur Clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house.”
“My—my house!” she repeated,
“I mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to your family.”
