Melton turned and gazed at him angrily.
“Yes,” said Monsieur Hector, “it is a tender subject, but I go so much that I come to know nearly all.”
“What the deuce do you mean?”
“Monsieur forgets that I dress Lady Barmouth’s hair; that the Miladi Maude often goes to the opera with her beautiful fair tresses arranged in designs of my invention. But, monsieur, they talk about the dog.”
Something very like an imprecation came from the young man’s lips, but he restrained it.
“Monsieur may trust me,” said the hairdresser. “Mademoiselle Justine is a great friend of mine. Have you not remarked her likeness to my lady of wax? She is exact. It is she—encore.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Melton, drily.
“Yes, monsieur; some day we shall return to la France together, to pass our days in simple happy joys.”
“Look here,” said Melton, bluntly, “I am an Englishman, and always speak plainly. You know all about me—about the house in Portland Place?”
“Everything, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, with a smile and a bow. “Mademoiselle Justine is désolée about the course that affairs have taken; she speaks to me of Sir Wilter as the enemy. Pah! she say he is old, bête, he is not at all a man. We discourse of you, monsieur—we lovers—and we talk of your love. We agree ourselves that it is foolish to trust a dog.”