He
had presumed on the privilege of age to send her some lilies. They had
been her mother's favourite flower. "Monsieur Folk, the great artist,"
had brought them himself, and placed them in her dressing-room, so Madame
informed her.
It was one of the half-dozen old hotels still left in Paris, and was
built round a garden famous for its mighty mulberry tree. She
breakfasted underneath it, and was reading there when Folk appeared
before her, smiling and with his hat in his hand. He excused himself for
intruding upon her so soon, thinking from what she had written him that
her first morning might be his only chance. He evidently considered her
remembrance of him a feather in his cap.
"We old fellows feel a little sadly, at times, how unimportant we are,"
he explained. "We are grateful when Youth throws us a smile."
"You told me my coming would take you back thirty-three years," Joan
reminded him. "It makes us about the same age. I shall treat you as
just a young man."
He laughed. "Don't be surprised," he said, "if I make a mistake
occasionally and call you Lena.
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