Beatrice, guessing what was occurring, paused and turned. “Do as my father says,” she said. “I shall not be able to keep you.”
“I, too, belong to myself, mademoiselle,” replied the girl with a quiet dignity equal to that of her mistress. “I cannot stay here. I’ll go with you if I may. But—I’ll not stay here.”
Richmond, realizing that his rage of the impotent had once more whirled him into an impossible situation, disappeared in the house. Before Beatrice and Valentine reached the lodge the auto overtook them. The chauffeur, Léry, swung the car close in to the footpath beside the road, jumped from his seat, opened the door.
“Did my father send you?” asked she.
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
When the two women were seated—Beatrice insisted on Valentine’s sitting by her—Beatrice said: “I don’t believe Léry.”
Valentine gave a queer, little smile.
“But,” continued Beatrice, “father will never make any inquiries.”
“Léry understands,” said Valentine.
“Understands—what?”