Cynthia didn’t say anything but she thought it was strange that a girl, fully her own age, should have to report so carefully on where she was going. Serena dispatched the note by one of the small urchins who still lingered to watch the fascinating process of packing up the paint box. Almost any of them was eager to earn an extra franc. “Though I hope it gets delivered,” remarked Serena, watching the small boy dubiously as he scampered off, “perhaps I hadn’t better go, after all.” “Oh, come along. It’s just to the Lower Town. Nothing can hurt you and surely your Aunt won’t care. Why I go all over France alone.” “Do you?” almost wistfully. The way out of the ancient walled city led down a steep little cobbled street where houses leaned their heads together, like gossips over tea cups, and between whose stones grasses grew and the shadows of the late afternoon flung a welcome coolness. Then out past the tourney court where once gallant knights in full armor had fought for their ladies’ favor, and past the Porte d’Aude, which looked out over the lower and newer ... and uglier town. “Where are you staying?” asked Cynthia. “Glory, but it’s good to talk to an American again! It’s been weeks since I have been able to.” She hadn’t quite been aware how much she had missed Nancy; had wished that Chick were here until she met someone from home. “It is jolly to speak your own tongue again. We’re staying at the Chat d’Or, Aunt Anna and myself. We only got here today. And won’t you come and have dinner with us tonight? I’d love to have you.” “I’d love to come. I’ve been here nearly a week now, and it’s worth every minute you can spend here too. Look!” and Cynthia clutched the other’s arm to turn her attention behind them. Above the road they had descended, full in the glow of the late sun the city rose, golden pale against the southern sky; turrets and towers, battlements and barbicans, dreaming in the fairy-tale light exactly as they had dreamed for the past six hundred years and more. “Lovely!” murmured the other, starry eyed. For just a moment Cynthia thought there were tears in her eyes, as well as stars, but she could understand that. Cynthia herself often felt teary when something was too beautiful to believe. They took up this matter of dinner again. “It will be nice to eat somewhere else, neither of the two places I’ve tried are very good and I’m sick of the boiled veal and caramel custard at the Cheval Blanc,” said Cynthia. “And where the French ever got the idea they were a nation of born cooks! ... I know where your hotel is, suppose I run home now, my road goes this way and yours to the left, then I’ll get a bath and into a clean dress and be at your place ... when? About seven?”