"I don't believe that you could have interfered in any case," Naniescu retorted gruffly.
"It is not too late, my friend. I would rather like to pit my wits against yours. So if you have repented of the bargain——" And Number Ten half drew his bulging pocket-book out of his pocket.
"Oh, go to the devil!" Naniescu exclaimed, half in rage and half in laughter.
"And I hope soon to meet you in his company," Number Ten replied, as he finally took his leave from the two men.
As soon as the door had closed on him, Naniescu turned and looked at his friend. But de Kervoisin had picked up his book, and gave him no encouragement to discuss the intriguing personality of Number Ten. His face, too, was quite inscrutable. Marcel Proust was engaging his full attention. For a moment it seemed as if Naniescu would fall back on his stock phrase, or else on a string of cosmopolitan oaths; he even drew his breath ready for either; then it seemed as if words failed him.
The intriguing personality was above comment.
[CHAPTER XXXVIII]
Rosemary had never before welcomed her husband so eagerly as she did that afternoon. As soon as she heard the whirring of his motor she ran to the gates to meet him.
"What news?" she cried when he had brought the car to a standstill.
As usual, his dark eyes flashed with joy when he saw her. He jumped down and raised both her hands to his lips.