No! It was not Basil, though even now there was something strangely reminiscent of her lover to the girl's eyes.
With a sigh, she passed out of the Atrium with her mother. They got their cloaks and walked slowly down the hall to the Condamine. The air was "all Arabia." A huge moon rode high in the heavens and washed the Mediterranean with silver. The flowers of the gardens sent forth an overpowering perfume—the night was sweet and dear.
"Basil! Basil! Basil!"
" ... To-morrow, my dear, we will get properly to work on the system. To-morrow!"
CHAPTER VIII
It was six o'clock on the following evening.
In a tiny room high up in the Hôtel Malmaison, above the servants' quarters, and on the roof, indeed—for the valet of Monsieur Montoyer was asthmatic and must breathe the freshest air possible—Emile Deschamps was standing.
The blinds were drawn, the room was lit by candles stuck in bottles, and presented the air more of a workshop than a bedroom.