The girl was talking with an officer of chasseurs, on the turf, a short distance away. She was tall and slender, very pale, with magnificent violet eyes and golden-bronze hair. From the gauze aigrettes on her hat to the tips of her patent-leather shoes, her costume was absolutely flawless. Her gown, of cherry-coloured crêpe de Chine, pailleté with silver, breathed from its every fold the talismanic word "Paquin," and the Lalique ornament of emeralds and ruddy gold which swung at her throat by a slender chain said as plainly "Charlier." There was not a dot missing from her veil, not the suggestion of a wrinkle in her white gloves, and not a displeasing note in the harmony of the whole.
"There's nothing wrong about the boy's judgment," was Radwalader's mental comment. "He's picked out the prettiest and best gowned woman in Paris. And it couldn't be better," he added, with an odd little smile.
Mademoiselle Tremonceau greeted him with a nod, a gloved hand, and a "Comment vas-tu?"
"B'en, pas mal, merci," answered Radwalader. With his left hand he caressed his chin reflectively, and, as if this had been a signal—which indeed it was—the girl turned to the young chasseur, who was staring at the intruder out of round, resentful eyes, and dismissed him with a hint.
"You've had fifteen minutes of my time, mon cher."
Then, as he retired, discomfited, she faced Radwalader again, and seemed to search his face for the answer to some unspoken question.
"I want to present one of my friends," he said, as if replying. "Mr. Andrew Vane—an American who has been in Paris three days. We'll have to speak English. Have I your permission?"
"You're strangely ceremonious of a sudden," answered Mademoiselle Tremonceau. "I don't seem to remember your asking permission before."
"It was his suggestion," observed Radwalader laconically.
For a moment the girl made no reply. Her questioning look had observably become more keen, and with one finger she picked at the turquoise matrix in the handle of her parasol.