Paul felt very young. He wanted to show her he was grown up, and he
wanted a number of things which had never even formed themselves in
his imagination before. But she went on talking.

"And your _cotelettes_ were tough, Paul, and you were so cross
that first evening, and hated me! And oh! Paul, you had far too much
wine for a boy like you!"

He reddened to the roots of his fair wavy hair, and then he hung his
head.

"I know I did--it was beastly of me--but I was so--upset--I--"

"Look at me," she said, and she bent forward over him--a gliding
feline movement infinitely sinuous and attractive.

Then he looked, his big blue eyes still cloudy with a mist of shame.

"You must tell me why you were upset, baby--Paul!"

How often she said his name! lingering over it as if it were music. It
thrilled him every time.

Then he gained courage.

"But how did you know anything about it--or what I had--or what I
drank? You never once raised your eyelids all the time!"

"Perhaps I can see through them when I want to--who knows!" and she
laughed.