"That man is Spentoli the sculptor," he said, as he handed her into the car. "A genius, Nonette! I should have presented him to you if you had not been so haughty."
"I hate geniuses," said Toby briefly.
He laughed at her. "Mais vraiment! How many have you known?"
She considered for a moment, and finally decided that the question did not require an answer.
Saltash took the wheel and spun the little car round with considerable dexterity. "Yes, a genius!" he said. "One of the most wonderful of the age. His work is amazing—scarcely human. He paints too. All Paris raves over his work—with reason. His picture, 'The Victim'—" he looked at her suddenly—"What is the matter, chérie? Is the sun too strong for you?"
Toby's hand was shielding her eyes. Her lips were trembling. "Don't wait!" she murmured. "Don't wait! Let's get away! I am all right—just a little giddy, that's all."
He took her at her word, and sent the car swiftly forward. They passed out into the crowded thoroughfare, and in a moment or two Toby leaned back, gazing before her with a white, set face.
Saltash asked no question. He did not even look at her, concentrating all his attention upon the task of extricating himself as swiftly as possible from the crush of vehicles around them.
It was a day of perfect autumn, and Paris lay basking in sunshine; but Saltash was a rapid traveller at all times, and it was not long before Paris was left behind. But even when free from the traffic, he did not speak or turn towards his companion, merely gave himself to the task of covering the ground as quickly as possible.
In the end it was Toby who spoke, abruptly, boyishly. "By jingo! You can drive!"