“Really?”
“You are not very amiable, Dereek.”
“Do you expect me to be?”
Mirelle lit a cigarette and puffed at it for a few minutes before saying:
“You think, perhaps, that it is not prudent so soon?”
Derek stared at her, then he shrugged his shoulders, and remarked formally:
“You are lunching here?”
“ Mais oui. I am lunching with you.”
“I am exceedingly sorry,” said Derek. “I have a very important engagement.”
“ Mon Dieu! But you men are like children,” exclaimed the dancer. “But yes, it is the spoilt child that you act to me, ever since that day in London when you flung yourself out of my flat, you sulk. Ah! mais c’est inouï! ”
“My dear girl,” said Derek, “I really don’t know what you are talking about. We agreed in London that rats desert a sinking ship, that is all that there is to be said.”
In spite of his careless words, his face looked haggard and strained. Mirelle leaned forward suddenly.
“You cannot deceive me,” she murmured. “I know—I know what you have done for me.”
He looked up at her sharply. Some undercurrent in her voice arrested his attention. She nodded her head at him.