He renewed his magnificent bow. “Madame,” he said carefully, “will you allow me to bring you to your hotel?”
He made no reference to Gerald, partly, doubtless, because his English was treacherous on difficult ground.
Sophia had not sufficient presence of mind to thank her saviour.
“But the bill?” she stammered. “The bill isn’t paid.”
He did not instantly understand her. But one of the waiters had caught the sound of a familiar word, and sprang forward with a slip of paper on a plate.
“I have no money,” said Sophia, with a feeble smile.
“Je vous arrangerai ca,” he said. “What name of the hotel? Meurice, is it not?”
“Hotel Meurice,” said Sophia. “Yes.”
He spoke to the head-waiter about the bill, which was carried away like something obscene; and on his arm, which he punctiliously offered and she could not refuse, Sophia left the scene of her ignominy. She was so distraught that she could not manage her crinoline in the doorway. No sign anywhere outside of Gerald or his foe!
He put her into an open carriage, and in five minutes they had clattered down the brilliant silence of the Rue de la Paix, through the Place Vendome into the Rue de Rivoli; and the night-porter of the hotel was at the carriage-step.