“You never saw her before.”
“Not to my sense.”
“But I haven’t finished my breakfast.”
“Well, if it’s anything important that’ll help you, m’sieu’. It’s like whittling. If you can do things with your hands while you’re talking and thinking, it’s a great help. You go on eating. I’ll show her up!”
Barouche smiled maliciously. “Well, show her up, Gaspard.”
The servant laughed. “Perhaps she’ll show herself up after I show her in,” he said, and he went out hastily.
Presently the door opened again, and Gaspard stepped inside.
“A lady to see you, m’sieu’,” he said.
Barouche rose from the table, but he did not hold out his hand. The woman was young, good looking, she seemed intelligent. There was also a latent cruelty in her face which only a student of human nature could have seen quickly. She was a woman with a grievance—that was sure. He knew the passionate excitement, fairly well controlled; he saw her bitterness at a glance. He motioned her to a chair.
“It’s an early call,” he said with a smile. Smiling was one of his serviceable assets; it was said no man could so palaver the public with his cheerful goodnature.