As they sat there the lady talked to him of things in Paris, of the Luxembourg, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the boulevards, and then she wickedly mentioned the _Bois de Boulogne_. But Paul did not prove very responsive on that subject. The remembrance of the spectacle he had presented the afternoon before did not please him. He knew right well that she was teasing him, though she did not mention the incident. He almost wished she would--it might give him an opportunity to say to her the words that he longed to say. As for Lucerne--or Langres--Mademoiselle nimbly avoided those spots--it was as if they had no place on her map of Europe. And try as he could, Paul could not bring himself to mention them. At last the ridiculousness of the situation dawned on him. Suppose he should boldly recall to Mademoiselle the _rencontre_ in the rustic tea-house at Lucerne? Clearly, he might commit an unfortunate _faux pas_ by such a move. No, he dared not speak to her of an incident so unconventional. He must ignore the fact that he had ever seen her before, unless she herself mentioned it. It was clear that she would demand careful wooing. This was a time when he must keep himself well in hand. And just as Paul had reached this conclusion something happened--it was but a little thing--that upset all his well-laid plans. As the lady held out more tea for Paul and he drew near to take it, he caught once more, as at Lucerne, the faintest breath of that strange perfume so dear to his memory. His hand shook with such sudden agitation that he set the cup upon the table, lest it fall. The lady looked up quickly at Paul, and as he stood there over her their eyes met fairly. All skillful fencing was over. The time had come when the truth must be told. "Let us drop the mask, Mademoiselle," he said with a slight choke in his voice. Without warning the thrill of youth had fired his blood and he cast prudence to the four winds. What mattered conventionality? What mattered anything? He only knew that he cared more for her than for all else in the whole world, and he took her hand in his with a tumultuous heart. "I love you, dear," he said simply. "You yourself are the beautiful lady I have sought constantly since that time I first saw you, as I looked up into the starry skies. At first I thought your eyes also were stars." She gazed up at him for a moment, her hand motionless in his, while neither stirred. "My heart misgives me!" she said then. "Words are so easily said--they are often spoken idly--_pour passer le temps_--and soon forgotten. Ah! Sir Paul! forgive me, I beg of you--if I was mad once. I promise myself it shall never happen again. It was unfortunate--but there are things one cannot explain." "But I love you," Paul repeated. "Are you sure it is love?" she asked him. Ah! how well Paul knew now, and he bent toward the face of his dreams.