Brouillard's laugh came because it was summoned, but there was no mirth in it.
"I have never been anything else but complaisant in the little set-tos with your father, Miss Genevieve. He has always carried too many guns for me. You may tell him that I am acting upon his suggestion, if you please—that the telegram to Washington is written. He will understand."
"And about this Massingale affair—you will not interfere again?"
Brouillard's jaw muscles began to set in the fighting lines.
"Does he make that a command?" he asked.
"Oh, I fancy not; at least, I didn't hear him say anything like that. I am merely speaking as your friend. You will not be allowed to do as you wish to do. I know my father better than you do, Mr. Brouillard."
"What he has done, and what he proposes to do, in Massingale's affair, is little short of highway robbery, Miss Genevieve."
"From your point of view, you mean. He will call it 'business' and cite you a thousand precedents in every-day life. But let it go. I've talked so much about business that I'm tired. Let me see, what was the other thing I came up here for?—oh, yes, I remember now. We are making up a party to motor down to the Tri'-Circ' Ranch for a cow-boy supper with Lord Falkland. There is a place in our car for you, and I know Sophie Schermerhorn would be delighted if you should call her up and tell her you are going."
She had turned toward the door and he went to open it for her.
"I am afraid I shall have to offer my regrets to you, and to Miss Schermerhorn as well, if she needs them," he said, with the proper outward show of disappointment.