And now Jean threw back his head and laughed boisterously. All that was no exaggeration; it was literally true. He even held Myrna in exactly the same position. He could break her socially—as readily as he could break a twig from a tree! It was even ludicrous, it was so simple. Imagine Myrna in such a state! Imagine what would happen if he let it be known that Jean Laparde would attend no function at which Mademoiselle Bliss was a guest! It was too funny, too droll! And she had dreams perhaps of disciplining Jean Laparde!
His face flushed a little. She was his! He had felt those warm, rich lips against his own! He would feel them there again a thousand times—ay, and soon again! He would not wait this time—as he had waited, fool that he had been, before! But for a day or so, if it pleased her to ride upon a high horse, let her go fast and furious—afterwards, that was quite another matter. Afterwards, those lips would be his again, that glorious, pulsing body would be in his arms again—and in the meantime—here was a great level stretch of road before him—and the day was before him—and the to-morrow could take care of itself!
And so Jean rode far that day; and lunched at a quaint little village near the Belgian frontier; and quite lost himself; and dined in a farmhouse; and finally, set upon the road again, reached Paris after midnight, where he alighted in front of his club. He was in a "humour" now, as he put it himself. A little supper and a hand at cards would complete, round out a day of rare delight. He was even humming an air to himself, as he entered the club.
"Pardon, Monsieur Laparde!"—the doorman was bowing respectfully. "Monsieur Valmain is in one of the private writing rooms—the one at the head of the stairs, monsieur."
Jean stopped his humming, and stared at the man.
"Well—and what of that?" he demanded.
"But, monsieur!" murmured the man, a little abashed. "Monsieur expects to meet Monsieur Valmain, does he not? Monsieur Valmain left word."
Jean scowled, and passed on. Paul Valmain! Paul Valmain! Paul Valmain! What devil of perversity had seen fit to drag Paul Valmain upon the scene? Was his day to be ruined by a bad taste in his mouth? What did the man want?
He went upstairs, knocked upon the door indicated, and, without waiting for an answer, opened it rather brusquely, stepped inside—and, with an exclamation of angry surprise, gazed at the man who seemed literally to have rushed across the room to confront him. Paul Valmain's face was positively livid, the eyes burned as though consumed with fever, the hands shook, and the tall form quivered in the most astonishing fashion. Was the man mad?
"Ah, Monsieur Jean Laparde!" the other cried out. "You have come at last! You saw fit to absent yourself to-day! I have been five times to the studio! But you thought it better to answer my message finally, eh? You did well! I should have gone again in an hour to dig you out!"