"I have the honor to report that we sail."
Stanief rested his dark head against the chair-back and met the brilliant gray eyes with the sweet serenity of his own.
CHAPTER VI
"THE KING IS DEAD—LONG LIVE THE KING"
The ennuied Count Rosal lunched with them,—a sallow, fatigued young patrician who wore a pince-nez. He obviously was much pleased by the American, and inquired anxiously whether he ever motored. Receiving an affirmative reply, he invited him, with an actual approach to enthusiasm, to try a new French car as soon as they landed.
Allard accepted willingly, even gaily; a little of his color had revived with the ocean wind, some fine elixir had mounted through his veins as the yacht drew from the arms of the harbor and danced out over the long Atlantic swell.
After luncheon Stanief dismissed the third member of their party with that nonchalant grace of his.
"Did you write any letters this morning?" he asked, when the salon had settled into its usual repose.
"One; to my brother."