“I was just on the point of sending Nicolette to you, Madame——” Marcelle de Ventadour said timidly. Her voice was shaking, her face flushed and she wandered about the room, restlessly fingering the draperies. Whereupon the old Comtesse raised her lorgnette and stared at Nicolette.
“Ah!” she said coldly, “Mademoiselle Deydier has not yet gone?”
“She was just going, Madame,” the younger woman rejoined, “when——”
“Then you have not yet seen Bertrand?” grandmama broke in.
“No,” Marcelle replied, stammering and flushing, “that is——”
“What do you mean by ‘No, ... that is, ...’?” old Madame retorted sharply. “Ah ça, my good Marcelle, what is all this mystery? Where is my grandson?”
“He was here a moment ago, he——”
“And where is M. de Peyron-Bompar?”
“He did not come. He is in Paris—that is—I think so——”
“M. de Peyron-Bompar not here? But——”