Larson was shyly eloquent regarding the Baronne. A shrewd old man, manufacturer and banker, he was yet in some ways diffident and unsophisticated as a child—and Makoff had obviously found the way, though Durant was slow to realize just where it lay. Comprehension came slowly.
“Perhaps you’ll stay the week-end with me?” asked Durant. “I’m not going on to Paris at once, and I’d be very glad. You see, I’ve been rather alone.”
“Like me,” said Larson. “Yes, I noticed. Queer we’d run together the last day! Why, about the visit—I don’t know, Durant, I don’t know. I’d like to mighty well, but I expect I’d make a fool of myself. I’m not acquainted with the way you do things over here.”
Durant was puzzled, the more so because he himself was acting in the dark, not knowing what Makoff intended.
“And she was a real baroness, eh?” Larson chewed his cigar. “Well, well! And to think of you—but I suppose you don’t imagine that I know who you are? But I do. That’s why I’m afraid to accept your invitation. I’d like to, because I like you; anyone can see you’re straight as a string, in spite of what they say about nobility. Now, I’m not so sure about that Russian chap—”
“Nobility?” repeated Durant. Larson broke into a laugh.
“Oh, I know about it! That Russian told me. You see, so long as you’re Durant to me, it’s all right. We get on fine. But when you become Lord Northcote—gosh, man! I’d be proud enough to bust, to think I’d visited you—but think of the breaks I’d make! I wouldn’t know whether to call you ‘My Lord,’ or ‘Mister,’ or what! And being all alone, with my wife dead, I’ve no one to steer me around. Not but what it’s tempting—”
Durant laughed, largely to conceal his startled amazement, for the old man’s loneliness struck him as pathetic. Lord Northcote!
“So I’m a lord, am I?” he said. Larson chuckled.
“Oh, he warned me you’d perhaps be angry—but I’ll say nothing about it. You just keep on being Durant, see? If you will, I’ll accept the invitation. How about it? I’ll have three days in London anyhow. Leaving there Monday.”