On his going to _dejeuner_ the next day, at a little restaurant close by the school, where he was in the habit of dropping in at mid-day--he dined in the evening in state at a more pretentious establishment--there sat Miss Brooke herself at a table at the end of the room, her face towards the door. None of the usual clients had yet arrived, as it was a trifle early, and _mademoiselle_ was distributing the newly-written menus among the various tables. In any case he must have caught sight of her at once, as the cluster of sharp red and black wings that shot up from one side of the little toque, which just seemed to rest on her hair, drew the eye at once. Her face showed glowing and bright, set above the dark mass of her stuff dress. As the door swung to she looked up from the menu she had been studying. "How do you do, Mr. Middleton? You seem real scared to see me." Her greeting seemed as calm and laughing as if they had but parted the day before, and Paul felt some vague dissatisfaction with it--he did not quite know why. It seemed, somehow, as if there were no romance between them at all, as if they were the merest acquaintances. Perhaps it was that the pent-up emotion of months of waiting needed more dramatic expression than this commonplace situation afforded. He asked permission, and sat down opposite her, scarcely knowing what to say to her first. "Can you tell me whether _cervelle de veau_ is anything good to eat? It's the only unfamiliar thing on the menu, and my only hope." He took the sheet of paper as she held it to him, but found the dish was equally unknown to him. They appealed to _mademoiselle_, who informed them, "_C'est dans la tete._" "I wonder if she means 'brains.' I was hoping not to have to translate _cervelle_ literally." "I am not afraid of experimenting," suggested Paul. "For my benefit. That is real kind of you. Whenever I've been curious about things with strange names, I've always had to order them, which is rather an expensive way of increasing one's French vocabulary." When the dish came, neither Paul nor Miss Brooke liked the curly look of it, so they fell back on _bifteck_, salad, cheese, and fruit. "And so you are here after all," said Miss Brooke, musingly. "Why? Did you think I was not serious about coming?" "I didn't mean that. My expression was a sort of acknowledgment to myself that I had found you--or rather, to be proper, that you had found me." His heart fairly leaped with pleasure. She had certainly then thought of him during the past months! "I must thank the happy chance that led you in here," he murmured, feeling his emotion at length control him.