The Italian dropped the bone (I don't mind the simile) not because he was afraid, I think, but because Mr. John Dane's chin was much squarer and firmer than his; and because such sense of justice as he had told him that the newcomer was within his rights.
"And I beg mademoiselle's pardon," he replied with a bow and a flourish.
"I'm so glad you've come—but I oughtn't to be, and I didn't expect you," I said, when my chauffeur had pulled out a chair for me at the end of the table farthest from the other maids and chauffeurs.
"Why not?" he wanted to know, sitting down by my side.
"Because I suppose it's the best hotel in town, and—"
"Oh, you're thinking of my pocket! I wish I hadn't said what I did last night. Looking back, it sounds caddish. But I generally do blurt out things stupidly. If I didn't, I shouldn't be 'shuvving' now—only that's another story. To tell the whole truth, it wasn't the state of my pocketbook alone that influenced me last night. I had two other reasons. One was a selfish one, and the other, I hope, unselfish."
"I hope the selfish one wasn't fear of being bored?"
"If that's a question, it doesn't deserve an answer. But because you've asked it, I'll tell you both reasons. I'd stopped at La Reserve before, in—in rather different circumstances, and I thought—not only might it make talk about me, but—"
"I understand," I said. "Of course, Lady Turnour isn't as careful a chaperon as she ought to be."
Then we both laughed, and the danger-signals were turned off in his eyes. When he isn't smiling, Mr. Dane sometimes looks almost sullen, quite as if he could be disagreeable if he liked; but that makes the change more striking when he does smile.