“Lucian!” cried Mrs. Robinson.
And he saw that instead of being temporarily speechless with rage, she was looking at him as she hadn’t looked for years and years—not since that day, before they were married, when he had won the tennis singles, and she had called him “my hero” in a very silly but somehow rather touching way.
“Oh, Lucian!” she cried again.
His business training had taught him that nothing is more fatal than a half triumph. He must go forward.
“No!” said he. “Don’t talk to me. I won’t be talked to about this. Only I want to offer my most sincere and humble apologies to Miss La Chêne—”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Miss La Chêne, completely overcome. “Ah, monsieur! Que vous êtes gentil! Que vous êtes bon!”
“Please don’t cry!” said Robinson.
“Je n’y puis rien!” sobbed she.
He really couldn’t bear this, especially as, for all he knew, her words might be an appeal to his better nature. He came nearer to her and patted her shoulder.
“There! There! There!” he said gently.