A little man—dapper and smiling—dressed in the uniform of the French diplomatic corps, the red ribbon of the Legion d’Honeur at his buttonhole, presented himself at that moment before Dorothy. To his profound bow and extended arm she returned a dazed stare. Her face was strangely strained and pale. The little man was fairly taken aback.
“You promised me zis dance, you know, Mees Brandon,” he stammered. “I am quite sure I have not made mistake as to ze numbaire. I——”
Mechanically she arose, accepted the proferred arm and went toward the dancing-floor.
“You are not indisposed, I trust,” he inquired solicitously.
“Count D’Arville,” she exclaimed impulsively, with a pressure ever so slight upon his gold-laced sleeve, “I know how gallant are the gentlemen of France and that you are le plus galant des galants. You’ll do me a favor, won’t you?”
The Count’s face reddened in a pleasurable flush.
“Ah, mademoiselle,” he exclaimed excitedly, and almost losing command of his limited stock of English, “if I shall do you a favor? It will give me pleasure, as you know, to lay down ze life for you. I await ze honor of your commands.”
“Thank you, Count,” said Dorothy simply, her blue eyes flashing upon him a grateful smile, “I knew you would. I want you to forego this dance. You won’t mind, will you?”
A look of disappointment came into Count D’Arville’s face.
“It is a great deprivation, mademoiselle, but I am your slave.”