“If you please, monsieur,” murmured Fanchette demurely.
“She never expected me.”
“Did I not say so?”
“You implied that she did.”
“And was that why you came?”
He drew up, baffled. She gave a tiny laugh.
“It was to convince me of the wickedness of my innuendo, was it not?” she whispered. “Well, I am convinced, monsieur.”
He had better have been silent from the first. She put a finger to her lips.
“Hush!” she said. “You can trust in me—you can always trust in me.”
He should have answered; should have repudiated, then and finally, the implication. He hesitated—and the next moment they had overtaken the Infanta, where she had paused beside the old perfumer.