Simon.”
“This is the Avenue des Champs Elys é es.”
“Of course. But, Simon, how lovely! One hears vaguely of these things without thinking of their location, or what they really look like.”
“It’s just as well. If you know too much about a place before you visit it, there’s no thrill or surprise left.”
Angela thought she would always be thrilled and surprised by Paris. She was enchanted by everything; the wide sweep of the Place de la Concorde; the magnificence of its bridges; the gendarmerie, nonchalantly directing traffic that at one moment seemed to be in the most hopeless jam and was sorted out the next; and the occasional glimpses of the magnificent Eiffel Tower. They drove along the banks of the Seine, past the Louvre to sight the great cathedral of Notre Dame, then up Rue St. Jacques where, almost at the top, was the student hotel.
“Well, here you are, Angela,” Simon announced. “I’ll come in with you and make sure there is a vacancy.”
There was, and after arranging to call for her at seven, he left her in the care of the hotel receptionist, an unsophisticated young woman of about her own age.
It was a simple room. A clean, comfortable-looking bed, a table and a plain wooden chair, a wash basin and a wardrobe with a full-length mirror. Angela pictured some hard-working student, perhaps even Simon, himself, poring over his books, and did not wish for anything more resplendent. The windows opened outward as all French windows do, onto a small verandah overlooking the street. She was content with that.
Tingling with excitement, she dressed carefully, choosing a simple black dress with a low, scooped neckline and the rhinestone necklace given to her by her mother. A black purse and dress sandals completed her outfit.
“Am I suitably attired for an evening in Paris, Simon?” she asked, when he called for her promptly at seven.
“You look absolutely charming for an evening in Paris or anywhere in the world,” he said softly.
She smiled, a faint color brushing her cheek.
It was a warm night and Simon chose a small restaurant on the Boulevard St. Michel where the tables were out-of-doors, their individual privacy made possible by beautifully cut hedges bearing a, fragrant leafy smell.
Angela gave a long-drawn-out sigh of contentment.
“Simon, this is wonderful. To be having an evening meal right out under the stars like this. Why can’t we do things this way in England?”
He smiled. What an amazing capacity she had for enjoying everything. “In England,” he said, “down would come the rain before you had time to lift your knife and fork.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
The food was delicious and beautifully cooked and served. Again, Angela thought suddenly of Roger and his cooking prowess and wondered if Simon had ever cooked a meal. She raised her eyes to find him eyeing her with an odd expression on his handsome face.
“You were deep in thought,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but actually I w asn’t so very far away.” She laughed. “This may sound odd, but I was wondering if you could cook.”
He stared at her for a moment and then burst out laughing. “How in the world did you get around to thinking something like that?”
“It’s this wonderful French cooking. For a moment I was reminded of someone I know. A rare specimen, I suppose. An Englishman who can cook ... really cook, I mean.”
“Roger, your eccentric artist?”
She smiled. “I suppose he is, rather. Then as my thoughts do run on, I wondered if—being French born—you were interested in cooking.”
“No. Does that disappoint you?”
“Good heavens, no. It was just an idle thought.”
He thought fleetingly how easily her thoughts strayed to Roger. ‘Tell me, Angela,” he said presently. “What would you like to do with the rest of the evening? A show, nightclub with cabaret, the lights of Paris from the Eiffel Tower, a stroll along the Seine. If it appeals to you, I’ll try to get tickets for
“This is the Avenue des Champs Elys é es.”
“Of course. But, Simon, how lovely! One hears vaguely of these things without thinking of their location, or what they really look like.”
“It’s just as well. If you know too much about a place before you visit it, there’s no thrill or surprise left.”
Angela thought she would always be thrilled and surprised by Paris. She was enchanted by everything; the wide sweep of the Place de la Concorde; the magnificence of its bridges; the gendarmerie, nonchalantly directing traffic that at one moment seemed to be in the most hopeless jam and was sorted out the next; and the occasional glimpses of the magnificent Eiffel Tower. They drove along the banks of the Seine, past the Louvre to sight the great cathedral of Notre Dame, then up Rue St. Jacques where, almost at the top, was the student hotel.
“Well, here you are, Angela,” Simon announced. “I’ll come in with you and make sure there is a vacancy.”
There was, and after arranging to call for her at seven, he left her in the care of the hotel receptionist, an unsophisticated young woman of about her own age.
It was a simple room. A clean, comfortable-looking bed, a table and a plain wooden chair, a wash basin and a wardrobe with a full-length mirror. Angela pictured some hard-working student, perhaps even Simon, himself, poring over his books, and did not wish for anything more resplendent. The windows opened outward as all French windows do, onto a small verandah overlooking the street. She was content with that.
Tingling with excitement, she dressed carefully, choosing a simple black dress with a low, scooped neckline and the rhinestone necklace given to her by her mother. A black purse and dress sandals completed her outfit.
“Am I suitably attired for an evening in Paris, Simon?” she asked, when he called for her promptly at seven.
“You look absolutely charming for an evening in Paris or anywhere in the world,” he said softly.
She smiled, a faint color brushing her cheek.
It was a warm night and Simon chose a small restaurant on the Boulevard St. Michel where the tables were out-of-doors, their individual privacy made possible by beautifully cut hedges bearing a, fragrant leafy smell.
Angela gave a long-drawn-out sigh of contentment.
“Simon, this is wonderful. To be having an evening meal right out under the stars like this. Why can’t we do things this way in England?”
He smiled. What an amazing capacity she had for enjoying everything. “In England,” he said, “down would come the rain before you had time to lift your knife and fork.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
The food was delicious and beautifully cooked and served. Again, Angela thought suddenly of Roger and his cooking prowess and wondered if Simon had ever cooked a meal. She raised her eyes to find him eyeing her with an odd expression on his handsome face.
“You were deep in thought,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but actually I w asn’t so very far away.” She laughed. “This may sound odd, but I was wondering if you could cook.”
He stared at her for a moment and then burst out laughing. “How in the world did you get around to thinking something like that?”
“It’s this wonderful French cooking. For a moment I was reminded of someone I know. A rare specimen, I suppose. An Englishman who can cook ... really cook, I mean.”
“Roger, your eccentric artist?”
She smiled. “I suppose he is, rather. Then as my thoughts do run on, I wondered if—being French born—you were interested in cooking.”
“No. Does that disappoint you?”
“Good heavens, no. It was just an idle thought.”
He thought fleetingly how easily her thoughts strayed to Roger. ‘Tell me, Angela,” he said presently. “What would you like to do with the rest of the evening? A show, nightclub with cabaret, the lights of Paris from the Eiffel Tower, a stroll along the Seine. If it appeals to you, I’ll try to get tickets for
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