"Did you know that for the past week Olga has been searching Havre high and low for you?"
"No. I didn't know it. Where is she now?"
"At Trouville. And I was to have dined with her tonight."
"I'm afraid you'll hardly get there," he said, looking at his watch.
"This line doesn't connect."
"Doesn't it? Oh, some line will, I suppose." And then irrelevantly, "Do you know, Mr. Markham, I've often wondered what it would be like to be a vagabond? I think I really am one deep down in my heart."
"Vagabonds are born—not made, Miss Challoner. They belong to the immortal Fellowship of the Open Air, an association which dates from Esau—an exclusive company, I can tell you, which black-balled brother Jacob, and made François Villon its laureate. It is the only club in the world where the possession of money is looked on with suspicion. Imagine a vagabond in a six thousand-dollar motor car!"
She opened her eyes wide and threw out her hands with a hopeless gesture.
"But I'm not responsible for the money. I didn't make it. I don't see why I haven't just as much right to be a vagabond as you have."
He examined her amusedly.
"You would have the right perhaps if it wasn't for your unfortunate millions. It's too bad. I'm really very sorry for you."