Heloise shrugged again. She knew that her shrugs enraged him, but she was a dauntless maid of France.
"You tell her that I want to see her, understand?" ordered Judd, thickly. "Want to see her right here and right now."
"Mademoiselle sent her maid out for the evening and left word that she was not to be disturbed," protested Heloise.
"I don't care a continental hang what word she left!" raged Judd. "You tell her that I want to see her, here and now. You take that message to her or out you go, bag and baggage. I'm paying your wages."
Heloise, bestowing upon him a parting shrug which was artistically designed to inform him as to just how little she cared for him or his "wages," left the room and knocked upon Louise's sleeping-room door.
Louise, in a negligée and with her hair rippling silkily over her shoulders, was preparing for sleep. The afternoon's reverie still possessed her. Musing dreams lingered in her eyes.
She looked up, not surprised to see Heloise enter. The French maid, devoted to Louise from the beginning, often came in for a chat when her mistress was out, to the jealous concern of Louise's own maid. Now, however, Louise was struck with the light of wrath and disgust in Heloise's fire-darting, eloquent eyes.
"What is it, Heloise?" she asked.
Heloise broke into objurgation as to "zat Jood beast"—cochon rouge, she called him, explosively.
"He demands that you come," she said to Louise. "He is not himself; that is, he is himself; he is drunk."