“The visitors!”
“What do they say?”
“Eh, well, then, they say—but no!” He contrived a masterly pretense of pained reluctance. “I cannot—”
“Speak out,” I commanded, piqued by his shilly-shallying. “What do they say?”
“Monsieur, it is about”—he shifted his weight from one leg to the other—“it is about—about that beautiful Mademoiselle Elliott who sometimes comes here.”
This was so far from what I had expected that I was surprised into a slight change of attitude, which all too plainly gratified him, though he made an effort to conceal it. “Well,” I said uneasily, “what do they find to say of Mademoiselle Elliott?”
“They say that her painting is only a ruse to see monsieur.”
“To see Monsieur Saffren, yes.”
“But, no!” he cried. “That is not—”
“Yes, it is,” I assured him calmly. “As you know, Monsieur Saffren is very, very handsome, and Mademoiselle Elliott, being a painter, is naturally anxious to look at him from time to time.”