"My mother was French," he stated quietly.
Gretchen caught his use of the past tense, but did not inquire further.
"No doubt she is the source of your excellent French."
"Maman did speak French to me as a child--but my French is quite poor
for anything but domestic conversation."
"From what little I speak," she replied, drawing on her cigarette, "you
sounded quite fluent." She let the smoke linger on her lips, then blew
it away softly.
"Why thank you for the compliment...Miss Haviland."
"Oh, dear," she said, realizing what she had neglected. "My Christian
name is Gretchen."
"Gretchen Haviland," he repeated slowly. "That has quite a
satisfactory ring to it."
She complimented him on the quality of the tobacco when they were
finished smoking. The hour was past nine o'clock, so they left the
café and walked into the street. The fog had descended, lower and
thicker than before. Occasional carriages appeared, rumbling quietly
along. Tatters of mist blew sluggishly past the gaslights.
"I hope you shall allow me the pleasure of escorting you home this
evening?" he asked as they walked.
"I should be honored."
He held out his elbow, and she slipped her gloved hand over his
forearm. They walked in silence toward her rooming house, both
enjoying the quiet of the evening. It seemed much warmer than before,
and Gretchen thought a snow was about to fall. The air had the crisp
scent of impending snow.
"I am delighted," Professor Bridwell said after a while, "that you were
not busy this evening. Surely you must have so many friends. Other
engagements."
"No," she answered, "I have very few friends. But
surely--Antoine--there must be any number of ladies who would be far
better company..."
"I'm too involved with my books, I fear. Studying all the time;
preparing lectures--while the ladies run off with younger rakes." He
glanced at her with a teasing half-smile. "I'll be thirty-five come
February."
Gretchen laughed to hear him say such things. But she was pleased that
she had guessed his age so nearly.
"I fear," he continued, "it is my fate to attend concerts alone, and
remain unwed all my life."
"Well," Gretchen replied, "there's something sad in that then, is there
not? Two studious people nearly of an age, with no other
attachments." She looked sidelong at him. "And with Christmas so
near..."
"Yes," he agreed, "there is a bit of sadness in that. Have you no
family nearby, Gretchen?"
"No, they're ALL in Connecticut--too far to visit this year, and my
rooming house would hardly be suitable for inviting them to visit me."
He laughed pleasantly at this. Yet she did not tell him that she was
estranged from her parents.
"Besides my family being far away--at twenty-nine, one cannot be
forever running home to one's parents, can one?" she asked.
"I do understand that," he said. "Fancy the two of us then, alone for
Christmas--it seems rather a shame."
"It does indeed," Gretchen answered looking away. Snow had begun to
fall, silently and hesitantly. The flakes, drifting between the empty
branches of trees along the avenue, seemed as large as walnuts; as
fluffy as eider down.
The professor laid his hand across Gretchen's gloved hand, suddenly
holding her fingers delicately beneath his. She smiled at him, looking
at his eyes; his mop of black hair, now bedecked with great white
snowflakes. They stopped walking for an instant, and she could see the
wisps of mist curling away from his mouth as he opened his lips. The
street was silent. He took a step toward her and she realized that she
was not looking far up into his eyes--he was not so much taller than
herself as she had imagined. She thought--suddenly aware of the
palpitation of her heart--she found herself hoping he would kiss her.
She believed he would kiss her, just then, and she let out her hot
breath. Mist escaped her expectant lips on the faintest of breezes.
They stood for a long moment, facing each other until he turned slowly
and stepped forward. Gretchen continued walking beside him with her
hand upon his arm. They crossed the street and at last were near her
rooming house. She looked up at the falling snow against a gray sky;
the tangle of branches above them; the misty pools of light beneath the
gaslights. She glanced at his serene face, turning, though she
continued to walk.
"I believe you almost kissed me back there, did you not Professor?"
"So, it's 'Professor' again, is it?" He smiled the faintest of smiles
and looked away down the street. "Miss Haviland, you did not ask to be
kissed--back there." She turned quickly in front of him to catch his
gaze, so that he had to stop. "Not in so many words," he added, "I
mean--you hesitated as much as I."
"Fancy that," she replied with a laugh, and began walking again,
swinging her legs gaily, letting her skirt billow.
He touched her hand, draped over his forearm, and she felt the warmth
of his fingers through her glove. They walked on beneath bare branches
and quietly falling snow. It seemed far too warm for snow--tropical
almost, as if the gaslights were warming the whole scene--the whole
world. Winter was about to melt--the sun might even rise the next
instant and spring would return in a blaze of gold and green with soft
rain, the scent of flowers.
"In future, perhaps I _shall_ ask, Professor." She leaned to grip his
arm more tightly and whispered. "Perhaps I shall."
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