When you came to Paris in September, you invited me to dine one night, one Thursday night, when he was to come to me.

I told him I had to go and dine with you.

He didn't mind; but was glad when I said I had an English editor for a friend, glad that I should have someone to talk to about London and the people I used to know.

If it had been a woman I loved, I should have been forced to tell lies: she would have been jealous of my past.

I told him the truth, and when I spoke about you he grew interested and excited, and at last he put a wish before me.