St. Jacques turned suddenly.
“Good evening, Mr. Barth. Is your ankle better?” he queried.
But Barth was as yet unable to make any distinctions in measuring out his displeasure.
“Thank you, Mr. St. Jacques,” he answered icily. “It is almost quite well.”
“O—oh. I am very glad,” St. Jacques responded, in such vague uncertainty as to how great a degree of gain might be represented by the almost quite that he entirely missed the note of hostility in Barth’s voice.
Again the white of Nancy’s eye moved towards the corner of the room, as Brock said,—
“But you haven’t answered St. Jacques’s question, Miss Howard.”
“I beg your pardon. I am not going to do anything, unless sitting in this room counts for something.”
“But it doesn’t.” Barth took an unexpected plunge into the conversation.
“Then what makes you do it?” Brock inquired.