“Bon soir, monsieur,” returned the girl cheerily. “Monsieur va bien!”
“My black chiffon—high neck, Marie.”
“Bien, madame,” and the maid left the room.
“One moment, Rose,” he said, detaining her as she started to rise from the divan. “There is something that I can’t quite understand.”
“Come, Jack! I must get dressed,” she protested.
“Forgive me,” he persisted, “but I can’t help wondering a little. Only last week you were worrying about your dressmaker’s bill, and now you are financing a yacht—with guests.”
She had risen to her feet, despite his detaining hand, and stood looking down into his eyes with an amused smile.
“You are indiscreet, monsieur,” said she, and rushed to her bedroom.
He waited for her to dress, striding impatiently up and down the polished studio floor, still wondering over her unexpected generosity and the real secret of her sudden wealth. Like most women left with an income, she had, as he knew, already made dangerous inroads into her capital. There had been times, too, when her old love of extravagance had led her far beyond her means—even to the pawnbrokers.
Through the half-open door of her bedroom familiar sounds reached him—the faint tinkle of hairpins falling upon a silver tray, the swish and rustle of a gown as Marie helped her mistress into it, the click-click of a button-hook—all favorite music to Lamont’s ears.