The wistful light seemed to breathe all vulgarity from the procession of pleasure-seekers returning from the races.  An aspect of vision stole over the scene.  Owen pointed to the group of pines by the lake’s edge, to the gondola-like boat moving through the pink stillness; and the cloud in the water, he said, was more beautiful than the cloud in heaven.  He spoke of the tea-house on the island, of the shade of the trees, of the lush grass, of the chatter of the nursemaids and ducks.  He proposed, and she accepted, that they should go there to-morrow.  The secret of their lips floated into their eyes, its echoes drifted through their souls like a faint strain played on violins; and neither spoke for fear of losing one of the faint vibrations.  Evelyn settled her embroidered gown over her feet as the carriage swept around the Arc de Triomphe.

“That is our rose garden,” he said, pointing to Paris, which lay below them glittering in the evening light, “You remember that I used to read you Omar?”

“Yes, I remember.  Not three days ago, yet it seems far away.”

“But you do not regret—­you would not go back?”

“I could not if I would.”

“It has been a charming day, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And it isn’t over yet.  I have ordered dinner at the Cafe des Ambassadeurs.  I’ve got a table on the balcony.  The balcony overlooks the garden, and the stage is at the end of the garden, so we shall see the performance as we dine.  The comic songs, the can-can dancers and the acrobats will be a change after Wagner.  I hope you’ll like the dinner.”

He took a card from his pocket and read the menu.

“There is no place in Paris where you get a better petite marmite than the Ambassadeurs.  I have ordered, you see, filets de volaille, pointes d’asperges.  The filets de volaille are the backs of the chickens, the tit-bits; the rest—­the legs and the wings—­go to make the stock; that is why the marmite is so good. Timbale de homard a l’Americaine is served with a brown sauce garnished with rice.  You ought to find it excellent.  If we were in autumn I should have ordered a pheasant Sauvaroff.  A bird being impossible, I allowed myself to be advised by the head waiter.  He assured me they have some very special legs of lamb; they have just received them from Normandy; you will not recognise it as the stringy, tasteless thing that in England we know as leg of lamb. Souffle au paprike—­this souffle is seasoned not with red pepper, which would produce an intolerable thirst, nor with ordinary pepper, which would be arid and tasteless, but with an intermediate pepper which will just give a zest to the last glass of champagne.  There is a parfait—­that comes before the souffle of course.  I don’t think we can do much better.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN