“Somewhere about nine hundred million francs, I believe,” he answered.
She nodded.
“That is exactly my price,” she declared.
“For giving up Peter Ruff?” he gasped.
She looked at her employer thoughtfully.
“He doesn’t look worth it, does he?” she said, with a queer little smile. “I happen to care for him, though—that’s all.”
Monsieur de Founcelles shrugged his shoulders. He knew men and women, and for the present he accepted defeat. He sighed heavily.
“I congratulate our friend, and I envy him,” he said. “If ever you should change your mind, Mademoiselle—”
“It is our privilege, isn’t it?” she remarked, with a brilliant smile. “If I do, I shall certainly let you know.”
On the way home, Peter Ruff was genial—Miss Brown silent. He had escaped from a difficult position, and his sense of gratitude toward his companion was strong. He showed her many little attentions on the voyage which sometimes escaped him. From Dover, they had a carriage to themselves.