"It is quite well," he snapped, and went back to Monaco and his solitary boat trip, flaming.
"One of these days ..." he muttered, as he tuned up the motor. He did not finish his sentence, but sent the nose of the Jungle Queen at full speed for the open sea.
Jean's talk with Mordon that morning had not been wholly satisfactory. She had calmed his suspicions to an extent, but he still harped upon the letter, and she had promised to give it to him that evening.
"My dear," she said, "you are too impulsive—too Gallic. I had a terrible scene with father last night. He wants me to break off the engagement; told me what my friends in London would say, and how I should be a social outcast."
"And you—you, Jean?" he asked.
"I told him that such things did not trouble me," she said, and her lips drooped sadly. "I know I cannot be happy with anybody but you, François, and I am willing to face the sneers of London, even the hatred and scorn of my father, for your sake."
He would have seized her hand, though they were in the open road, but she drew away from him.
"Be careful, François," she warned him.
"Remember that you have a very little time to wait."
"I cannot believe my good fortune," he babbled, as he brought the car up the gentle incline into Monte Carlo. He dodged an early morning tram, missing an unsuspecting passenger, who had come round the back of the tram-car, by inches, and set the big Italia up the palm avenue into the town.