“I don’t believe Ella looks at it in that light,” Davenant said hesitatingly. “You mean to say that there is nothing—er——”
“Of course not,” Macheson interrupted.
“Hasn’t she——”
“Oh! shut up,” Macheson exclaimed. “Here they come.”
Ella passed her arm through his. Mademoiselle Rosine had told her while she stood on tiptoe and dabbed at her cheeks with a powder-puff, that she was too cold. The Messieurs Anglais were often so difficult. They needed encouragement, so very much encouragement. Then there were more confidences, and Madame Rosine was very much astonished. What sort of a man was this Monsieur Macheson, yet so gallant, so gay! She promised herself that she would watch him.
“We will drive up together, you and I,” Ella whispered in his ear, but Macheson only laughed.
“I’ve hired a motor car for the night,” he said. “In you get! I’m going to sit in front with the chauffeur and sing.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” Ella declared, almost sharply. “You will come inside with us.”
“Anywhere, anyhow,” he answered. “To the little hell at the top of the hill, Jean, and drive fast,” he directed. “Jove! it’s two o’clock! Hurry up, Davenant. We shall have no time there at all.”
There was barely room for four. Mademoiselle Rosine perched herself daintily on Davenant’s knee. Ella tried to draw Macheson into her arms, but he sank on to the floor, and sat with his hands round his knees singing a French music-hall song of the moment. They shouted to him to leave off, but he only sang the louder. Then, in a block, he sprang from the car, seized the whole stock of a pavement flower-seller, and, paying her magnificently, emptied them through the window of the car into the girls’ laps, and turning round as suddenly—disappeared.