“I know that,” shrugged Stefan. “I've always believed in egotism, but I confess Felicity is a little extreme.”
“Where is she?”
“Oh, she's gone to Biarritz for a week with a party of Americans. I wouldn't go. I loathe mobs of dressed-up spendthrifts. We had planned to go to Brittany, but she said she needed a change of companionship—that her soul must change the color of its raiment, or some such piffle.” He laughed shortly. “Here I am hanging about in the heat, most of my money gone, and not able to do a stroke of work. It's hell, Adolph.”
“My boy,” said his friend, “why don't you go home?”
“I haven't the face, and that's a fact. Besides, hang it, I still want Felicity. Oh, what a mess!” he growled, sinking lower into his chair. Suddenly Adolph jumped up.
“I had forgotten; there is a letter for you,” and he tossed one into his lap. “It's from America.”
Stefan flushed, and Adolph watched him as he opened the letter. The flush increased—he gave an exclamation, and, jumping up, began walking feverishly about the room.
“My God, Adolph, she's heard about Felicity!” Adolph exclaimed in his turn. “She asks me about it—what am I to do?”
“What does she say; can you tell me?” enquired the Swede, distressed.
“Tiens, I'll read it to you,” and Stefan opened the letter and hastily translated it aloud. “She's so generous, poor dear,” he groaned as he finished. Adolph's face had assumed a deeply shocked expression. He was red to the roots of his blonde hair.