Americans -- France -- Fiction; Domestic fiction; France -- Fiction; Love stories; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction
“But of course I know how much that’s worth,” the girl broke off, with
one of her flashes of shrewdness. “And besides, it isn’t likely that a
poor old fossil like Mme. Dolle could get anybody to listen to her now,
even if she really thought I had talent. But she might introduce me to
people; or at least give me a few tips. If I could manage to earn enough
to pay for lessons I’d go straight to some of the big people and work
with them. I’m rather hoping the Farlows may find me a chance of that
kind--an engagement with some American family in Paris who would want to
be ‘gone round’ with like the Hokes, and who’d leave me time enough to
study.”
In the rue de la Chaise they learned little except the exact address
of the Farlows, and the fact that they had sub-let their flat before
leaving. This information obtained, Darrow proposed to Miss Viner that
they should stroll along the quays to a little restaurant looking out on
the Seine, and there, over the plat du jour, consider the next step
to be taken. The long walk had given her cheeks a glow indicative of
wholesome hunger, and she made no difficulty about satisfying it in
Darrow’s company. Regaining the river they walked on in the direction
of Notre Dame, delayed now and again by the young man’s irresistible
tendency to linger over the bookstalls, and by his ever-fresh response
to the shifting beauties of the scene. For two years his eyes had been
subdued to the atmospheric effects of London, to the mysterious fusion
of darkly-piled city and low-lying bituminous sky; and the transparency
of the French air, which left the green gardens and silvery stones so
classically clear yet so softly harmonized, struck him as having a kind
of conscious intelligence. Every line of the architecture, every arch
of the bridges, the very sweep of the strong bright river between them,
while contributing to this effect, sent forth each a separate appeal
to some sensitive memory; so that, for Darrow, a walk through the Paris
streets was always like the unrolling of a vast tapestry from which
countless stored fragrances were shaken out.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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