Hilda smiled round at him. "Who is fishing? You know I love to have you come. You can't think how I look forward to it." She was walking beside him along the _quai_. The unobtrusive squareness of the "Doric little Morgue" was on their left, as they faced the keen wind and the dying sunset. Notre Dame stood gray upon a chilly evening sky of palest yellow. "I know now that I _was_ lonely." "That implies the kindest compliment." "More than _implies_, I hope." "You really like to have me come?" "You know I do. I am only afraid that you will rob yourself--of other things for me." The candor of her eyes was childlike. "My little friend." Odd felt that he could not quite trust himself, and took refuge in the convenient assertion. The cold, clear wind blew against their faces; it ruffled the water, and the gray waves showed sharp steely lights. The leafless trees made an arabesque of tracery on the river and the sky. Hilda looked up at the kind, melancholy face beside her, a faint touch of cynicism in her sad smile; but the cynicism was all for herself, and it was not excessive. She accepted this renaissance gratefully, though the disillusions of the past were unforgettable. "Tell me, Hilda, that you will be my friend whatever happens--to you or to me." "I have always been your friend, have I not?" "Have you, Hilda, always?" "I am dully faithful." Hilda's smile was a little baffling; it gave no warrant for the sudden quickening of the breath that he had experienced more than once of late. "I feel as if I had _found_ you, Hilda." "Did you _look_ for me, then?" The smile was now decidedly baffling and yet very sweet. "You know," she added, "I liked you from that first moment when you fished me out of the river. It seems that you are fated to act always the chivalrous part toward me." "I would ask no better fate. Hilda, you have seen Allan Hope? Not yet?" "No; not yet." Hilda's face grew serious. "He is coming to tea this afternoon." "But you must be there." "Yes, I suppose I must." This affectation of girlish indifference seemed to Odd more significant than noticeable shyness. "We must take a cab," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "Oh, it makes no difference. Cabs, you see, are never reckoned with in my arrivals. I am warranted to be late." "But you must not be late." "But if I want to?" There was certainly a touch of roguery in her eyes. "If you want to and if I want you to, it shows that you are cruel and I conscienceless. Here is a cab. Away with you, Hilda. _Au revoir_." "Aren't you coming too?" asked Hilda, pausing in the act of lifting Palamon. "Not to-day; I can't." Odd knew that he was cowardly. "I shall see you to-morrow? I suppose not." "Why, yes, if you come to the Boulevard St. Germain." Hilda had deposited Palamon on the floor of the cab and still stood by the open door looking rather dismayed. "Really!" "I shall go there."