"Mr. Stepney wants me to go out in the yacht," said the girl, and Jean smiled.
"I'm glad you call it a 'yacht,'" she said dryly. "You're the second person who has so described it. The first was the agent. Take her to-morrow, Marcus."
There was a glint of amusement in her eyes, and he felt that she knew what was at the back of his mind.
"All right," he said in a tone which suggested that it was anything but all right, and added, "I saw you flying through Nice this morning with that yellow-faced chauffeur of yours, Jean."
"Were you up so early?" she asked carelessly.
"I wasn't dressed, I was looking out of the window—my room faces the Promenade d'Anglaise. I don't like that fellow."
"I shouldn't let him know," said Jean coolly. "He is very sensitive. There are so many fellows that you dislike, too."
"I don't think you ought to allow him so much freedom," Marcus Stepney went on. He was not in an amiable frame of mind, and the knowledge that he was annoying the girl encouraged him. "If you give these French chauffeurs an inch they'll take a kilometre."
"I suppose they would," said Jean thoughtfully. "How is your poor hand, Marcus?"
He growled something under his breath and thrust his hand deep into the pocket of his reefer coat.