"An old quarrel—the settling of an unpaid score! Allons!"
"Oh, the devil," muttered Bancroft.
"Où donc?" inquired Le Vallon, who was sitting next to him and who understood English.
Bancroft shot an angry glance towards the door. Le Vallon turned to see what had excited his wrath.
Talking to De Farraud, with many quick gestures and smiles, was Philip. He had just arrived, and he was apologizing for his lateness, throwing all the blame on De Bergeret, who accepted it meekly.
"Oh, the little Englishman!" said Le Vallon scornfully. "Always late, always eccentric. And grey lace! What an affectation!"
Philip cast a swift glance round the room. His eyes rested an instant on Bancroft's face, then they passed on. Two or three men called to him, and he presently went to dice with De Vangrisse. But when Le Vallon left Bancroft to join a faro group, Philip swept up his dice, and with a laughing word to De Vangrisse, promising to return, he walked over to Bancroft's table, and sat down in Le Vallon's chair with a swirl of his full skirts.
Bancroft was about to rise. Astonished at Philip's sudden advent, he sank back again.
"To what do I owe this honour?" he demanded.