Free Never to Love by Anne Weale

threw up her tiny bejeweled hands in a gesture of amazement.
    “ C’est incroyable!” she exclaimed excitedly. “As soon as I see you I think that Justin has married an American. Ah, now I understand. You have a French couturier, n’est-ce pas ?”
    “No, I bought this dress in London,” Andrea said, rather bewilderedly.
    Madame Bechet looked even more astonished as, with the Parisienne’s candid appreciation of dress, she appraised the elegantly d raped gray chiffon and the subtle contrast of the lustrous amber satin stole.
    “ Extraordinaire !” she murmured. “No, it is of no use for you to pinch my arm, Jacques. I like to say what I think, and to learn that such a toilette is not French, or possibly American, is very hard to believe.”
    Jacques Bechet, a stockily built man of about forty-five with thick gray hair cut en brosse and crinkly brown eyes, smiled apologetically at Andrea and said, “You must forgive Leonie, madame. She has the reputation of being the most indiscreet woman in Paris, eh, Justin?”
    “And also the best cook,” said Justin.
    Leonie darted a pleased glance at him and made a little moue of reproof at her husband.
    “It is true that I am sometimes indiscreet. You must forgive me if I have offended you, petite ,” she said, laying a friendly hand on Andrea’s arm. “But Englishwomen are so fond of the pink tulle and the little bows here and another trimming there—” she waved her hands to suggest , a dress liberally adorned with unnecessary furbelows “—that I am astonished to find this lovely dress.”
    Andrea had had time to recover her poise after the odd incident on the balcony. She laughed. “I am not a bit offended, Madame Bechet. I know what you mean about the bows and frills, but I'm afraid that many Englishwomen have not the confidence to wear plain clothes, although I they envy the Frenchwoman her soigne looks.”
    “Ah, that is a very charming compliment, is it not, Jacques? Now, tell me, from which of the London maisons de couture did you buy this dress with the color of smoke? ”
    “Before you two embark on a fashion gossip, do you I think we might go to dinner?” Justin inquired dryly .
    “Oh, men! Always they are so concerned with their stomachs,” L e onie said disdainfully, but with a twinkle lurking in her shrewd brown eyes. “Very well, we will leave our discussion of the couture and other matters of importance until later when these gourmands are satisfied.”
    La Tour d’Argent is one of the oldest and most celebrated of Paris restaurants. It is on the top floor of a building on the Quai de la Tournelle and commands a magnificent view of the Seine and the massive towers of Notre Dame.
    As they entered the handsome tapestry-hung dining room and were ushered to a table, Andrea recognized a Hollywood film star, a distinguished British playwright and several other celebrities. While the other three studied the menu and wine list with the serious concentration of true gourmets, her eyes strayed around the room, absorbing the luxurious harmony of the appointments and the atmosphere of supreme comfort and service.
    “It is your first visit here?” Leonie asked, seeing her expression.
    “Yes, I’ve never been to Paris before.”
    “Then you must come very o ften. Justin says you are here for two weeks only. That is a short time to see our city, and on a honeymoon one has little attention for one’s surroundings.”
    Andrea colored and flickered a quick glance at Justin, but he was still discussing their choice of wines with Jacques Bechet and the attentive chef-caviste and had not heard this last remark.
    “In the summer one dines on the terrace outside, and when Notre Dame is floodlit it is a very beautiful sight,” Leonie went on, explaining some of the restaurant’s history. The chef, she said, was a pupil of the great Chatelin who cooked for the last czar of Russia, and the wine cellar was one of the finest in all France, with champagne and