“You’re your own master, aren’t you?”

“You’re trying to put me off.  Please go on with the story.”  Miss Wilkinson, with a little laugh, went on.  The art-student had passed her several times on the stairs, and she had paid no particular attention.  She saw that he had fine eyes, and he took off his hat very politely.  And one day she found a letter slipped under her door.  It was from him.  He told her that he had adored her for months, and that he waited about the stairs for her to pass.  Oh, it was a charming letter!  Of course she did not reply, but what woman could help being flattered?  And next day there was another letter!  It was wonderful, passionate, and touching.  When next she met him on the stairs she did not know which way to look.  And every day the letters came, and now he begged her to see him.  He said he would come in the evening, vers neuf heures, and she did not know what to do.  Of course it was impossible, and he might ring and ring, but she would never open the door; and then while she was waiting for the tinkling of the bell, all nerves, suddenly he stood before her.  She had forgotten to shut the door when she came in.

“C’etait une fatalite.”

“And what happened then?” asked Philip.

“That is the end of the story,” she replied, with a ripple of laughter.

Philip was silent for a moment.  His heart beat quickly, and strange emotions seemed to be hustling one another in his heart.  He saw the dark staircase and the chance meetings, and he admired the boldness of the letters—­oh, he would never have dared to do that—­and then the silent, almost mysterious entrance.  It seemed to him the very soul of romance.

“What was he like?”

“Oh, he was handsome.  Charmant garcon.”

“Do you know him still?”

Philip felt a slight feeling of irritation as he asked this.

“He treated me abominably.  Men are always the same.  You’re heartless, all of you.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Philip, not without embarrassment.

“Let us go home,” said Miss Wilkinson.

XXXIII

Philip could not get Miss Wilkinson’s story out of his head.  It was clear enough what she meant even though she cut it short, and he was a little shocked.  That sort of thing was all very well for married women, he had read enough French novels to know that in France it was indeed the rule, but Miss Wilkinson was English and unmarried; her father was a clergyman.  Then it struck him that the art-student probably was neither the first nor the last of her lovers, and he gasped:  he had never looked upon Miss Wilkinson like that; it seemed incredible that anyone should make love to her.  In his ingenuousness he doubted her story as little as he doubted what he read in books, and he was angry that such wonderful things never happened to him.  It was humiliating that if Miss Wilkinson insisted upon his telling her of his adventures in Heidelberg he would have nothing to tell.  It was true that he had some power of invention, but he was not sure whether he could persuade her that he was steeped in vice; women were full of intuition, he had read that, and she might easily discover that he was fibbing.  He blushed scarlet as he thought of her laughing up her sleeve.