Everyman's Land

								

from Paris. We stop one day in a place we don't care for: three in a
place we like: a week or more in a place we love."
"Then at that rate you won't have got far in fifteen days. I know the
direction you've come from by what you've told me, and your brother's
sketches. You wouldn't be here on the border of Belgium if you didn't
mean to cross the frontier."
"Oh, we shall cross it, of course. But where we shall go when we get
across is another question."
"I'll find the answer, and I'll find you," he flings at me with a smile
of defiance.
"Why should you give yourself trouble?"
"To--see some more of your brother's pictures," he says gravely. I know
that he wishes to see me, not the pictures, and he knows that I know;
but I let it go at that.
When the sketch has been wrapped up between cardboards, and the twelve
hundred francs placed carelessly on a table, there seems no reason why
Mr. Jim Wyndham shouldn't start for the cathedral. But he suddenly
decides that the way of wisdom is to eat first, and begs me to lunch
with him. "Do, please," he begs, "just to show you're not offended
with my false pretences."
I yearn to say yes, and don't see why I shouldn't; so I do. We have
déjeuner together in the summer-house where Brian and I always eat. We
chat about a million things. We linger over our coffee, and I smoke two
or three of his gold-tipped Egyptians. When we suppose an hour has gone
by, at most, behold, it is half-past four! I tell him he must start: he
will be too late for the cathedral at its best. He says, "Hang the
cathedral!" and refuses to stir unless I promise to dine with him when
he comes back.
"You mean in a fortnight?" I ask. "Probably we shan't be here."
"I mean this evening."
"But--you're not coming back! You're going another way. You told me----"
"Ah, that was before we were friends. Of course I'm coming back. I'd
like to stay to-morrow, and----"
"You certainly must not! I won't dine with you to-night if you do."
"Will you if I don't?"
"Perhaps."
"Then I'll order the dinner before I start for the cathedral. I want it
to be a perfect one."
"But--I've said only perhaps."
"Don't you want to pour a little honest gold into poor old Madame
Mounet's pocket?"
"Ye-es."
"If so, you mustn't chase away her customers."
"For her sake, the dinner is a bargain!"
"Not the least bit for my sake?"
"Oh, but yes! I've enjoyed our talk. And you've been so nice about my
brother's pictures."
So it is settled. I put on my prettiest dress, white muslin, with some
fresh red roses Madame Mounet brings me; and the dinner-table in the
summer-house is a picture, with pink Chinese lanterns, pink-shaded
candles, and pink geraniums. Madame won't decorate with roses because
she explains, roses anywhere except on my toilette, "spoil the unique
effect of Mademoiselle."
The little inn on the canal-side buzzes with excitement. Not within the