Chambers Robert William
In the Quarter
Five
Thirion's at six pm. Madame Thirion, neat and demure, sat behind her desk; her husband, in white linen apron and cap, scuttled back and forth shouting, ``Bon! Bon!'' to the orders that came down the call trumpet. The waiters flew crazily about, and cries went up for ``Pierre'' and ``Jean'' and ``green peas and fillet.''
The noise, smoke, laughter, shouting, rattle of dishes, the penetrating odor of burnt paper and French tobacco, all proclaimed the place a Latin Quarter restaurant. The English and Americans ate like civilized beings and howled like barbarians. The Germans, when they had napkins, tucked them under their chins. The Frenchmen – well! they often agreed with the hated Teuton in at least one thing; that knives were made to eat with. But which of the four nationalities exceeded the others in turbulence and bad language would be hard to say.
Clifford was eating his chop and staring at the blonde adjunct of a dapper little Frenchman.
``Clifford,'' said Carleton, ``stop that.''
``I'm mesmerizing her,'' said Clifford. ``It's a case of hypnotism.''
The girl, who had been staring back at Clifford, suddenly shrugged her shoulders, and turning to her companion, said aloud:
``How like a monkey, that foreigner!''
Clifford withdrew his eyes in a hurry, amid a roar of laughter from the others. He was glad when Braith's entrance caused a diversion.
``Hullo, Don Juan! I see you, Lothario! Drinking again?''
Braith took it all as a matter of course, but this time failed to return as good as they gave. He took a seat beside Gethryn and said in a low tone:
``I've just come from your house. There's a letter from the Salon in your box.''
Gethryn set down his wine untasted and reached for his hat.
``What's the matter, Reggy? Has Lisette gone back on you?'' asked Clifford, tenderly.
``It's the Salon,'' said Braith, as Gethryn went out with a hasty ``Good night.''
``Poor Reggy, how hard he takes it!'' sighed Clifford.
Gethryn hurried along the familiar streets with his heart in his boots sometimes, and sometimes in his mouth.
In his box was a letter and a note addressed in pencil. He snatched them both, and lighting a candle, mounted the stairs, unlocked his door and sank breathless upon the lounge. He tore open the first envelope. A bit of paper fell out. It was from Braith and said:
I congratulate you either way. If you are successful I shall be as glad as you are. If not, I still congratulate you on the manly courage which you are going to show in turning defeat into victory.
``He's one in a million,'' thought Gethryn, and opened the other letter. It contained a folded paper and a card. The card was white. The paper read:
You are admitted to the Salon with a No. 1. My compliments. J. Lefebvre
He ought to have been pleased, but instead he felt weak and giddy, and the pleasure was more like pain. He leaned against the table quite unstrung, his mind in a whirl. He got up and went to the window. Then he shook himself and walked over to his cabinet. Taking out a bunch of keys, he selected one and opened what Clifford called his ``cellar.''
Clifford knew and deplored the fact that Gethryn's ``cellar'' was no longer open to the public. Since the day when Rex returned from Julien's, tired and cross, to find a row of empty bottles on the floor and Clifford on the sofa conversing incoherently with himself, and had his questions interrupted by a maudlin squawk from the parrot – also tipsy – since that day Gethryn had carried the key. He now produced a wine glass and a dusty bottle, filled the one from the other and emptied it three times in rapid succession. Then he took the glass to the washbasin and rinsed it with great slowness and precision. Then he sat down and tried to think. Number One meant a mention, perhaps a medal. He would telegraph his aunt tomorrow. Suddenly he felt a strong desire to tell someone. He would go and see Braith. No, Braith was in the evening class at the Beaux Arts; so were the others, excepting Clifford and Elliott, and they were at a ball across the river.
Whom could he see? He thought of the garçon. He would ring him up and give him a glass of wine. Alcide was a good fellow and stole very little. The clock struck eleven.
``No, he's gone to bed. Alcide, you've missed a glass of wine and a cigar, you early bird.''
His head was clear enough now. He realized his good fortune. He had never been so happy in his life. He called the pups and romped with them until an unlucky misstep sent Mrs Gummidge, with a shriek, to the top of the wardrobe, whence she glared at Gethryn and spit at the delighted raven.
The young man sat down fairly out of breath, but the pups still kept making charges at his legs and tumbled over themselves with barking. He gathered them up and carried them into his bedroom to their sleeping box. As he stooped to drop them in, there came a knock at his studio door. But when he hastened to open it, glad of company, there was no one there. Surprised, he turned back and saw on the floor before him a note. Picking it up, he took it to the lamp and read it. It was signed, ``Yvonne Descartes.''
When he had read it twice, he sat down to think. Presently he took something out of his waistcoat pocket and held it close to the light. It was a gold brooch in the shape of a fleur-de-lis. On the back was engraved ``Yvonne.'' He held it in his hand a while, and then, getting up, went slowly towards the door. He opened the door, closed it behind him and moved toward the stairs. Suddenly he started.
``Braith! Is that you?''
There was no answer. His voice sounded hollow in the tiled hallway.
``Braith,'' he said again. ``I thought I heard him say `Rex.''' But he kept on to the next floor and stopped before the door of the room which was directly under his own. He paused, hesitated, looking up at a ray of light which came out from a crack in the transom.
``It's too late,'' he muttered, and turned away irresolutely.
A clear voice called from within, ``Entrez donc, Monsieur.''
He opened the door and went in.
On a piano stood a shaded lamp, which threw a soft yellow light over everything. The first glance gave him a hasty impression of a white lace-covered bed and a dainty toilet table on which stood a pair of tall silver candlesticks; and then, as the soft voice spoke again, ``Will Monsieur be seated?'' he turned and confronted the girl whom he had helped in the Place de la Concorde. She lay in a cloud of fleecy wrappings on a lounge that was covered with a great white bearskin. Her blue eyes met Gethryn's, and he smiled faintly. She spoke again:
``Will Monsieur sit a little nearer? It is difficult to speak loudly – I have so little strength.''
Gethryn walked over to the sofa and half unconsciously sank down on the rug which fell on the floor by the invalid's side. He spoke as he would to a sick child.
``I am so very glad you are better. I inquired of the concierge and she told me.''
A slight color crept into the girl's face. ``You are so good. Ah! what should I have done – what can I say?'' She stopped; there were tears in her eyes.
``Please say nothing – please forget it.''
``Forget!'' Presently she continued, almost in a whisper, ``I had so much to say to you, and now you are really here, I can think of nothing, only that you saved me.''
``Mademoiselle – I beg!''
She lay silent a moment more; then she raised herself from the sofa and held out her hand. His hand and eyes met hers.
``I thank you,'' she said, ``I can never forget.'' Then she sank back among the white fluff of lace and fur. ``I only learned this morning,'' she went on, after a minute, `` who sat beside me all that night and bathed my arm, and gave me cooling drinks.''
Gethryn colored. ``There was no one else to take care of you. I sent for my friend, Doctor Ducrot, but he was out of town. Then Dr Bouvier promised to come, and didn't. The concierge was ill herself – I could not leave you alone. You know, you were a little out of your head with fright and fever. I really couldn't leave you to get on by yourself.''
``No,'' cried the girl, excitedly, ``you could not leave me after carrying me out of that terrible crowd; yourself hurt, exhausted, you sat by my side all night long.''
Gethryn laid his hand on her. ``Hélène,'' he said, half jesting, ``I did what anyone else would have done under the circumstances – and forgotten.''
She looked at him shyly. ``Don't forget,'' she said.
``I couldn't forget your face,'' he rashly answered, moved by the emotion she showed.
She brightened.
``Did you know me when you first saw me in the crowd?'' She expected him to say ``Yes.''
``No,'' he replied, ``I only saw you were a woman and in danger of your life.''
The brightness fell from her face. ``Then it was all the same to you who I was.''
He nodded. ``Yes – any woman, you know.''
``Old and dirty and ugly?''
His hand slipped from hers. ``And a woman – yes.''
She shrugged her pretty shoulders. ``Then I wish it had been someone else.''
``So do I, for your sake,'' he answered gravely.
She glanced at him, half frightened; then leaning swiftly toward him:
``Forgive me; I would not change places with a queen.''
``Nor I with any man!'' he cried gayly. ``Am I not Paris?''
``And I?''
``You are Hélène,'' he said, laughing. ``Let me see – Paris and Hélène would not have changed – ''
She interrupted him impatiently. ``Words! you do not mean them. Nor do I, either,'' she added, hastily. After that neither spoke for a while. Gethryn, half stretched on the big rug, idly twisting bits of it into curls, felt very comfortable, without troubling to ask himself what would come next. Presently she glanced up.
``Paris, do you want to smoke?''
``You don't think I would smoke in this dainty nest?''
``Please do, I like it. We are – we will be such very good friends. There are matches on that table in the silver box.''
He shook his head, laughing. ``You are too indulgent.''
``I am never indulgent, excepting to myself. But I have caprices and I generally die when they are not indulged. This is one. Please smoke.''
``Oh, in that case, with Hélène's permission.''
She laughed delightedly as he blew the rings of fragrant smoke far up to the ceiling. There was another long pause, then she began again:
``Paris, you speak French very well.''
He came from where he had been standing by the table and seated himself once more among the furs at her feet.
``Do I, Hélène?''
``Yes – but you sing it divinely.''
Gethryn began to hum the air of the dream song, smiling, ``Yes 'tis a dream – a dream of love,'' he repeated, but stopped.
Yvonne's temples and throat were crimson.
``Please open the window,'' she cried, ``it's so warm here.''
``Hélène, I think you are blushing,'' said he, mischievously.
She turned her head away from him. He rose and opened the window, leaning out a moment; his heart was beating violently. Presently he returned.
``It's one o'clock.''
No answer.
``Hélène, it's one o'clock in the morning.''
``Are you tired?'' she murmured.
``No.''
``Nor I – don't go.''
``But it's one o'clock.''
``Don't go yet.''
He sank down irresolutely on the rug again. ``I ought to go,'' he murmured.
``Are we to remain friends?''
``That is for Hélène to say.''
``And Hélène will leave it to Homer!''
``To whom?'' said Gethryn.
``Monsieur Homer,'' said the girl, faintly.
``But that was a tragedy.''
``But they were friends.''
``In a way. Yes, in a way.''
Gethryn tried to return to a light tone. ``They fell in love, I believe.'' No answer. ``Very well,'' said Gethryn, still trying to joke, ``I will carry you off in a boat, then.''
``To Troy – when?''
``No, to Meudon, when you are well. Do you like the country?''
``I love it,'' she said.
``Well, I'll take my easel and my paints along too.''
She looked at him seriously. ``You are an artist – I heard that from the concierge.''
``Yes,'' said Gethryn, ``I think I may claim the title tonight.''
And then he told her about the Salon. She listened and brightened with sympathy. Then she grew silent.
``Do you paint landscapes?''
``Figures,'' said the young man, shortly.
``From models?''
``Of course,'' he answered, still more drily.
``Draped,'' she persisted.
``No.''
``I hate models!'' she cried out, almost fiercely.
``They are not a pleasing set, as a rule,'' he admitted. ``But I know some decent ones.''
She shivered and shook her curly head. ``Some are very pretty, I suppose.''
``Some.''
``Do you know Sarah Brown?''
``Yes, I know Sarah.''
``Men go wild about her.''
``I never did.''
Yvonne was out of humor. ``Oh,'' she cried, petulantly, ``you are very cold – you Americans – like ice.''
``Because we don't run after Sarah?''
``Because you are a nation of business, and – ''
``And brains,'' said Gethryn, drily.
There was an uncomfortable pause. Gethryn looked at the girl. She lay with her face turned from him.
``Hélène!'' No answer. ``Yvonne – Mademoiselle!'' No answer. ``It's two o'clock.''
A slight impatient movement of the head.
``Good night.'' Gethryn rose. ``Good night,'' he repeated. He waited for a moment. ``Good night, Yvonne,'' he said, for the third time.
She turned slowly toward him, and as he looked down at her he felt a tenderness as for a sick child.
``Good night,'' he said once more, and, bending over her, gently laid the little gold clasp in her open hand. She looked at it in surprise; then suddenly she leaned swiftly toward him, rested a brief second against him, and then sank back again. The golden fleur-de-lis glittered over his heart.
``You will wear it?'' she whispered.
``Yes.''
``Then – good night.''
Half unconsciously he stooped and kissed her forehead; then went his way. And all that night one slept until the morning broke, and one saw morning break, then fell asleep.
Six
It was the first day of June. In the Luxembourg Gardens a soft breeze stirred the tender chestnut leaves, and blew sparkling ripples across the water in the Fountain of Marie de Medicis.
The modest little hothouse flowers had quite recovered from the shock of recent transplanting and were ambitiously pushing out long spikes and clusters of crimson, purple and gold, filling the air with spicy perfume, and drawing an occasional battered butterfly, gaunt and seedy, from his long winter's sleep, but still remembering the flowery days of last season's brilliant debut.
Through the fresh young leaves the sunshine fell, dappling the glades and thickets, bathing the gray walls of the Palais du Sénat, and almost warming into life the queer old statues of long departed royalty, which for so many years have looked down from the great terrace to the Palace of the King.
Through every gate the people drifted into the gardens, and the winding paths were dotted and crowded with brightly-colored, slowly-moving groups.
Here a half dozen meager, black-robed priests strolled silently amid the tender verdure; here a noisy crowd of children, gamboling awkwardly in the wake of a painted rubber ball, made day hideous with their yells.
Now a slovenly company of dragoons shuffled by, their big shapeless boots covered with dust, and their whalebone plumes hanging in straight points to the middle of their backs; now a group of strutting students and cocottes passed noisily, the girls in spotless spring plumage, the students vying with each other in the display of blinking eyeglasses, huge bunchy neckties, and sleek checked trousers. Policemen, trim little grisettes (for whatever is said to the contrary, the grisette is still extant in Paris), nurse girls with turbaned heads and ugly red streamers, wheeling ugly red babies; an occasional stray zouave or turco in curt Turkish jacket and white leggings; grave old gentlemen with white mustache and military step; gay, baggy gentlemen from St Cyr, looking like newly-painted wooden soldiers; students from the Ecole Polytechnique; students from the Lycée St Louis in blue and red; students from Julien's and the Beaux Arts with a plentiful sprinkling of berets and corduroy jackets; and group after group of jingling artillery officers in scarlet and black, or hussars and chasseurs in pale turquoise, strolled and idled up and down the terrace, or watched the toy yachts braving the furies of the great fountain.
Over by the playgrounds, the Polichinel nuisance drummed and squeaked to an appreciative audience of tender years. The ``Jeu de paume'' was also in full swing, a truly exasperating spectacle for a modern tennis player.
The old man who feeds the sparrows in the afternoon, and beats his wife at night, was intent on the former cheerful occupation, and smiled benevolently upon the little children who watched him, open mouthed. The numerous waterfowl – mallard, teal, red-head, and dusky – waddled and dived and fought the big mouse-colored pigeons for a share of the sparrow's crumbs.
A depraved and mongrel pointer, who had tugged at his chain in a wild endeavor to point the whole heterogeneous mass of feathered creatures from sparrow to swan, lost his head and howled dismally until dragged off by the lean-legged student who was attached to the other end of the chain.
Gethryn, sprawling on a bench in the sunshine, turned up his nose. Braith grunted scornfully.
A man passed in the crowd, stopped, stared, and then hastily advanced toward Gethryn.
``You?'' said Rex, smiling and shaking hands. ``Mr Clifford, this is Mr Bulfinch; Mr Braith,'' – but Mr Bulfinch was already bowing to Braith and offering his hand, though with a curious diminution of his first beaming cordiality. Braith's constraint was even more marked. He had turned quite white. Bulfinch and Gethryn, who had risen to receive him, remained standing side by side, stranded on the shoals of an awkward situation. The little Mirror man made a grab at a topic which he thought would float them off, and laid hold instead on one which upset them altogether.
``I hope Mrs Braith is well. She met you all right at Vienna?''
Braith bowed stiffly, without answering.
Rex gave him a quick look, and turning on his heel, said carelessly:
``I see you and Mr Braith are old acquaintances, so I won't scruple to leave you with him for a moment. Bring Mr Bulfinch over to the music stand, Braith.'' And smiling, as if he were assisting at a charming reunion, he led Clifford away. The latter turned, as he departed, an eye of delighted intelligence upon Braith.
To renew his acquaintance with Mr Bulfinch was the last thing Braith desired, but since the meeting had been thrust upon him he thanked Gethryn's tact for removing such a witness of it as Clifford would have been. He had no intention, however, of talking with the little Mirror man, and maintained a profound silence, smoking steadily. This conduct so irritated the other that he determined to force an explanation of the matter which seemed so distasteful to his ungracious companion. He certainly thought he had his own reasons for resenting the sight of Braith upon a high horse, and he resumed the conversation with all the jaunty ease which the calling of newspaper correspondent is said to cultivate.
``I hope Mrs Braith found no difficulty in meeting you in Vienna?''
``Madame was not my wife, and we did not meet in Vienna,'' said Braith shortly.
Bulfinch began to stare, and to feel a little less at ease.
``She told me – that is, her courier came to me and – ''
``Her courier? Mr Bulfinch, will you please explain what you are talking about?'' Braith turned square around and looked at him in a way that caused a still further diminution of his jauntiness and a proportionate increase of respect.
``Oh – I'll explain, if I know what you want explained. We were at Brindisi, were we not?''
``Yes.''
``On our way to Cairo?''
``Yes.''
``In the same hotel?''
``Yes.''
``But I had no acquaintance with madame, and had only exchanged a word or two with you, when you were suddenly summoned to Paris by a telegram.''
Braith bowed. He remembered well the false dispatch that had drawn him out of the way.
``Well, and when you left you told her you would be obliged to give up going to Cairo, and asked her to meet you in Vienna, whither you would have to go from Paris?''
``Oh, did I?''
``And you recommended a courier to her whom you knew very well, and in whom you had great confidence.''
``Ah! And what was that courier's name?''
``Emanuel Pick. I wasn't fond of Emanuel myself,'' with a sharp glance at Braith's eyes, ``but I supposed you knew something in his favor, or you would not have left – er – the lady in his charge.''
Braith was silent.
``I understood him to be your agent,'' said the little man, cautiously.
``He was not.''
``Oh!''
A long silence followed, during which Mr Bulfinch sought and found an explanation of several things. After a while he said musingly:
``I should like to meet Mr Pick again.''
``Why should you want to meet him?''
``I wish to wring his nose two hundred times, one for each franc I lent him.''
``How was that?'' said Braith, absently.
``It was this way. He came to me and told me what I have repeated to you, and that you desired madame to go on at once and wait for you in Vienna, which you expected to reach in a few days after her arrival. That you had bought tickets – one first class for madame, two second class for him and for her maid – before you left, and had told her you had placed plenty of money for the other expenses in her dressing case. But this morning, on looking for the money, none could be found. Madame was sure it had not been stolen. She thought you must have meant to put it there, and forgotten afterwards. If she only had a few francs, just to last as far as Naples! Madame was well known to the bankers on the Santa Lucia there! etc. Well, I'm not such an ass that I didn't first see madame and get her to confirm his statement. But when she did confirm it, with such a charming laugh – she was very pretty – I thought she was a lady and your wife – ''
In the midst of his bitterness, Braith could not help smiling at the thought of Nina with a maid and a courier. He remembered the tiny apartment in the Latin Quarter which she had been glad to occupy with him until conducted by her courier into finer ones. He made a gesture of disgust, and his face burned with the shame of a proud man who has received an affront from an inferior – and who knows it to be his own fault.
``I can at least have the satisfaction of setting that right,'' he said, holding two notes toward the little Mirror man, ``and I can't thank you enough for giving me the opportunity.''
Bulfinch drew back and stammered, ``You don't think I spoke for that! You don't think I'd have spoken at all if I had known – ''
``I do not. And I'm very glad you did not know, for it gives me a chance to clear myself. You must have thought me strangely forgetful, Mr Bulfinch, when the money was not repaid in due time.''
``I – I didn't relish the manner in which you met me just now, I confess, but I'm very much ashamed of myself. I am indeed.''
``Shake hands,'' said Braith, with one of his rare smiles.
The notes were left in Mr Bulfinch's fingers, and as he thrust them hastily out of sight, as if he truly was ashamed, he said, blinking up at Braith, ``Do you – er – would you – may I offer you a glass of whiskey?'' adding hastily, ``I don't drink myself.''
``Why, yes,'' said Braith, ``I don't mind, but I won't drink all alone.''
``Coffee is my tipple,'' said the other, in a faint voice.
``All right; suit yourself. But I should think that rather hot for such a day.''
``Oh, I'll take it iced.''
``Then let us walk over to the Café by the bandstand. We shall find the others somewhere about.''
They strolled through the grove, past the music-stand, and sat down at one of the little iron tables under the trees. The band of the Garde Republicaine was playing. Bulfinch ordered sugar and Eau de selz for Braith, and iced coffee for himself.
Braith looked at the program: No. 1, Faust; No. 2, La Belle Hélène.
``Rex ought to be here, he's so fond of that.''
Mr Bulfinch was mixing, in a surprisingly scientific manner for a man who didn't drink himself, something which the French call a ``coquetelle''; a bit of ice, a little seltzer, a slice of lemon, and some Canadian Club whiskey. Braith eyed the well-worn flask.
``I see you don't trust to the Café's supplies.''
``I only keep this for medicinal purposes,'' said the other, blinking nervously, ``and – and I don't usually produce it when there are any newspapermen around.''
``But you,'' said Braith, sipping the mixture with relish, ``do you take none yourself?''
``I don't drink,'' said the other, and swallowed his coffee in such a hurry as to bring on a fit of coughing. Beads of perspiration clustered above his canary-colored eyebrows as he set down the glass with a gasp.
Braith was watching the crowd. Presently he exclaimed:
``There's Rex now,'' and rising, waved his glass and his cane and called Gethryn's name. The people sitting at adjacent tables glanced at one another resignedly. ``More crazy English!''
``Rex! Clifford!'' Braith shouted, until at last they heard him. In a few moments they had made their way through the crowd and sat down, mopping their faces and protesting plaintively against the heat.
Gethryn's glance questioned Braith, who said, ``Mr Bulfinch and I have had the deuce of a time to make you fellows hear. You'd have been easier to call if you knew what sort of drink he can brew.''
Clifford was already sniffing knowingly at the glass and turning looks of deep intelligence on Bulfinch, who responded gayly, ``Hope you'll have some too,'' and with a sidelong blink at Gethryn, he produced the bottle, saying, ``I don't drink myself, as Mr Gethryn knows.''
Rex said, ``Certainly not,'' not knowing what else to say. But the fondness of Clifford's gaze was ineffable.
Braith, who always hated to see Clifford look like that, turned to Gethryn. ``Favorite of yours on the program.''
Rex looked.
``Oh,'' he cried, ``Belle Hélène.'' Next moment he flushed, and feeling as if the others saw it, crimsoned all the deeper. This escaped Clifford, however, who was otherwise occupied. But he joined in the conversation, hoping for an argument.
``Braith and Rex go in for the Meistersinger, Walküre, and all that rot – but I like some tune to my music.''
``Well, you're going to get it now,'' said Braith; ``the band are taking their places. Now for La Belle Hélène.'' He glanced at Gethryn, who had turned aside and leaned on the table, shading his eyes with his program.
The leader of the band stood wiping his mustache with one hand while he turned the leaves of his score with the other. The musicians came in laughing and chattering, munching their bit of biscuit or smacking their lips over lingering reminiscences of the intermission.
They hung their bayonets against the wall, and at the rat-tat of attention, came to order, standing in a circle with bugles and trombones poised and eyes fixed on the little gold-mounted baton.
A slow wave of the white-gloved hand, a few gentle tips of the wand, and then a sweep which seemed to draw out the long, rich opening chord of the Dream Song and set it drifting away among the trees till it lost itself in the rattle and clatter of the Boulevard St Michel.
Braith and Bulfinch set down their glasses and listened. Clifford silently blew long wreaths of smoke into the branches overhead. Gethryn leaned heavily on the table, one hand shading his eyes.
Oui c'est un rêve;
Un rêve doux d'amour –
The music died away in one last throb. Bulfinch sighed and blinked sentimentally, first on one, then on the other of his companions.
Suddenly the little Mirror man's eyes bulged out, he stiffened and grasped Braith's arm; his fingers were like iron.
``What the deuce!'' began Braith, but, following the other's eyes, he became silent and stern.
``Talk of the devil – do you see him – Pick?''
``I see,'' growled Braith.
``And – and excuse me, but can that be madame? So like, and yet – ''
Braith leaned forward and looked steadily at a couple who were slowly moving toward them in deep conversation.
``No,'' he said at last; and leaning back in his seat he refused to speak again.
Bulfinch chattered on excitedly, and at last he brought his fist down on the table at his right, where Clifford sat drawing a caricature on the marble top.
``I'd like,'' cried Bulfinch, ``to take it out of his hide!''
``Hello!'' said Clifford, disturbed in his peaceful occupation, ``whose hide are you going to tan?''
``Nobody's,'' said Braith, sternly, still watching the couple who had now almost reached their group.
Clifford's start had roused Gethryn, who stirred and slowly looked up; at the same moment, the girl, now very near, raised her head and Rex gazed full into the eyes of Yvonne.
Her glance fell and the color flew to her temples. Gethryn's face lost all its color.
``Pretty girl,'' drawled Clifford, ``but what a dirty little beggar she lugs about with her.''
Pick heard and turned, his eyes falling first on Gethryn, who met his look with one that was worse than a kick. He glanced next at Braith, and then he turned green under the dirty yellow of the skin. Braith's eyes seemed to strike fire; his mouth was close set. The Jew's eyes shifted, only to fall on the pale, revengeful glare of T. Hoppley Bulfinch, who was half rising from his chair with all sorts of possibilities written on every feature.
``Let him go,'' whispered Braith, and turned his back.
Bulfinch sat down, his eyes like saucers. ``I'd like – but not now!'' he sputtered in a weird whisper.
Clifford had missed the whole thing. He had only eyes for the girl.
Gethryn sat staring after the couple, who were at that moment passing the gate into the Boulevard St Michel. He saw Yvonne stop and hastily thrust something into the Jew's hand, then, ignoring his obsequious salute, leave him and hurry down the Rue de Medicis.
The next Gethryn knew, Braith was standing beside him.
``Rex, will you join us at the Golden Pheasant for dinner?'' was what he said, but his eyes added, ``Don't let people see you look like that.''
``I – I – don't know,'' said Gethryn. ``Yes, I think so,'' with an effort.
