"Why?"

"Because," said Marguerite, releasing herself from my arms, and,
taking from a great bunch of red camellias a single camellia, she
placed it in my buttonhole, "because one can not always carry out
agreements the day they are signed."

"And when shall I see you again?" I said, clasping her in my
arms.

"When this camellia changes colour."

"When will it change colour?"

"To-morrow night between eleven and twelve. Are you satisfied?"

"Need you ask me?"

"Not a word of this either to your friend or to Prudence, or to
anybody whatever."

"I promise."

"Now, kiss me, and we will go back to the dining-room."

She held up her lips to me, smoothed her hair again, and we went
out of the room, she singing, and I almost beside myself.

In the next room she stopped for a moment and said to me in a low
voice: