M. Bourget stared at her, set down his cup, jumped up, and marched to the window. There he stood, the delicate lines about him contrasting strangely with the sturdy squareness of his figure.
“Then, madame, permit me to say that you must be ignorant of the principles of building. You see that wall!” He waved a thick hand in its direction.
“Well, monsieur?” returned Mme. de Beaudrillart, glancing languidly.
“It already bulges, and in another twenty years it will be down, unless something is done. Perhaps you do not believe me.”
“Oh, monsieur, on the contrary,” put in Claire. “We know that you are an undisputed authority in such matters.”
If he perceived the taunt, he disregarded it. He had made his point, and it appeared to him impossible that it should be ignored. “Well, then?” he said, inquiringly.
“All this takes money.”
“True enough.” He rubbed his hands. “But now that you have money?”
There was a sort of rustle in the room; no one answered. Nathalie flushed crimson. To her relief a servant entered with a message from Léon.
“Monsieur le baron regrets exceedingly that he has been called away on business, and cannot himself have the pleasure of driving Monsieur Bourget back to Tours, but the coachman awaits orders.”