"Mam'selle Jeanne Angelot," a rather rich voice said in a laughing tone.
She guessed before she even changed the poise of her head. What cruel fate followed her!
"Nay, do not look so fierce! How you have grown, yet I should have known you among a thousand."
"Louis Marsac!" The name seemed wrested from her. She could feel the wrench in her mind.
"Then you have not forgotten me! Mam'selle, I cannot help it—" with a deprecation in his voice that was an apology and begged for condonation. "You were pretty before, but you have grown wonderfully beautiful. You will allow an old friend to say it."
His eyes seemed to devour her, from her dusky head to the finger tips, nay, even to the slim ankles, for skirts were worn short among the ordinary women. Only the quality went in trailing gowns, and held them up carefully in the unpaved ways.
"If you begin to compliment, I shall dismiss you from the list of my acquaintances. It is foolish and ill-bred. And if you go around praising every pretty girl in Le Detroit, you will have no time left for business, Monsieur."
Her face set itself in resolute lines, her voice had a cold scornfulness in it.
"Is this all the welcome you have for me? I have been in but an hour, and busy enough with these dolts in unloading. Then I meant to hunt you up instead of going to sup with Monsieur Meldrum, with whom I have much business, but an old friend should have the first consideration."
"I am not sure, Monsieur, that I care for friends. I have found them troublesome. And you would have had your effort for nothing. Pani and I would not be at home."