"No, no!" said Henry Bliss, hurriedly and in confusion. "No—I—that is not what I meant, Jean. Not at all what I meant! I mean that if she takes it lightly, it cannot—er—be so—er—"
"I know what you mean," said Jean moodily. "I have discovered it for myself."
"Tut, tut!" protested Henry Bliss anxiously. "This will never do at all, Jean! You must both make an effort to understand each other better. Myrna is very—er—high-spirited—very! You see that, of course, Jean—eh? Well? Tut, tut! That is all! You must not be too firm or—er—exacting with her at first. I have found—that is, I have not found that to be the most tactful way of handling her. Now slip on your overcoat, my boy, and we'll go down together."
Again Jean shrugged his shoulders. Would it be necessary to open the door and bow even Henry Bliss out?
"No," he said, with pointed finality; "not now. I prefer to remain here for a little while—alone."
Henry Bliss, perturbed and upset, coughed uneasily—and suddenly began to fumble through his pockets. His fingers encountering first a cigar, he took it out mechanically, and, as evidence of the composure he did not possess, bit off the end with deliberate care. Then he fumbled through his pockets again, and this time produced a marconigram. He tapped it playfully with one finger, and smiled engagingly at Jean.
"Well, well, I knew I had a panacea with me," he said cheerily. "This came by wireless half an hour ago; it's what sent me out on the hunt for you, and ran me into Myrna, and made me stumble on the lovers' quarrel that I am sure will end just like all the rest of them—eh—my boy? Listen!"—unfolding the message. "It is from a gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, who is very prominent in art circles in New York, stating that he has just learned that you are en route for America, and asking, on behalf of the leading New York societies, if you will accept a public reception on the steamer's arrival in New York. There you are, my boy! Think of that! I promise you that it will be something to eclipse anything you could imagine. We do things in America—if I say it myself! It will be the triumph of your career. Bands, flags, bunting, cheers, the dock en fête—to say nothing of reporters"—he was laughing now, and patting Jean's arm excitedly. "They'll show you, my boy, what they think of Jean Laparde in America! That's the kind of a welcome they're getting ready for you—it will be the greatest moment of your life! But here"—he stole an almost wistful glance at Jean, and stepping over to the writing desk at the side of the cabin, laid the marconigram down—"I'll just leave this here, and"—he coughed again, and moved tactfully to the door—"and you just kind of think about that instead of anything else, and—er—in about half an hour or so, I'll bring Myrna along up, and we'll talk it all over together—eh—my boy?"
He waved his hand genially, and, without waiting for a reply, went out.
For a moment Jean did not move; then his eyes, as though drawn irresistibly in that direction, shifted from the door that had closed on Henry Bliss to the marconigram lying on the desk—and abruptly he walked over and picked up the wireless message. He read it through laboriously, for his English still came hard to him—and read it again, more slowly, lingering over the words, muttering snatches of the sentences aloud. "... Shall spare no effort ... endeavour worthily to express our sentiments ... splendid genius of which France is so justly proud..."
And, holding it there in his hands, a dull flush came and spread itself over Jean's face. The triumph of his career, Henry Bliss had said—the greatest moment of his life! This great and wonderful America, of which he had heard so much, was waiting for him eagerly—waiting for him—Jean Laparde—Jean Laparde! This was to be his welcome to that New Land where all was on a scale so tremendous and magnificent. To his ears there came the mighty roar of thousands shouting again and again the name of Jean Laparde; before his eyes a sea of faces looked up into his from dense-lined streets as he drove along—and all, all in that vast multitude were cheering, waving, acclaiming Jean Laparde. They were waiting for him there at the gateway to America, open-handed, royal in their hospitality, to pay him honour such as he had never known before. They were waiting for him there—for him—for Jean Laparde! They were waiting—