"The thing will be made very clear to you to-morrow, François," she said softly, "and really there is no reason to worry. I wish to end this unhappy state of affairs."
"With me?" he asked quickly.
"No, with Madame Meredith," she answered. "I, too, am tired of waiting for marriage and I intend asking my father's permission for the wedding to take place next week. Indeed, François," she lowered her eyes modestly, "I have already written to the British Consul at Nice, asking him to arrange for the ceremony to be performed."
The sallow face of the chauffeur flushed a dull red.
"Do you mean that?" he said eagerly. "Jean, you are not deceiving me?"
She shook her head.
"No, François," she said in that low plaintive voice of hers, "I could not deceive you in a matter so important to myself."
He stood watching her, his breast heaving, his burning eyes devouring her, then:
"You will give me back that letter I wrote, Jean?" he said.
"I will give it to you to-morrow."