"It mus' be manage' carefully. You are sure de papers are all correct?"
"It is as to that Monsieur Quinlevin has gone to Ireland."
"Ah, I see—we mus' wait until 'e comes back. But I s'all 'elp you, mon ami. You will rely upon me, n'est ce pas?"
"Yes, I will."
His mind was so full of this astonishing revelation that he sat silent and motionless while she changed the subject and chattered on. The charm of the chance encounter was gone. Gamine she might be, and irresponsible like others of her kind in Paris or elsewhere, but she was not for him. He had a standard to measure her by.
"You are so triste, 'Arry," she broke in suddenly. "I do not t'ink I like you so triste. What s'all we care, you and I, for Monsieur le Duc an' 'is money? To be young an' in love——"
She caught both of his hands across the table and held them. "You are not yet well, 'Arry. I can see. It is dat for so long you do not know comfort an' 'appiness. Allons! I s'all make you laugh again, until de triste look come no more into your eyes."
He was about to give some token of his appreciation that would satisfy her when he saw her glance past his shoulder toward the door which led into the bar.
"Your frien' who was wit' you—'e 'as come back again," she whispered.
"Ah——" he turned and saw Harry peering through the door.