The head-waiter picked up the empty champagne bottle, and then paused for a moment. Lethbridge was an old customer, and with François that was the same as being an old friend. For years he had come to the Milan, and, latterly, he had always brought the Girl with him, a wonderful, clear-eyed, upstanding youngster, who seemed almost too young for the narrow gold ring on her left hand. And François, who had once heard him call her his Colt, had nodded his approval and been glad. It seemed an ideal marriage, and he was nothing if not sentimental. But to-night all was not well; the Colt had been a bit tricky perhaps; the snaffle had not been quite light enough in the tender mouth. And so François paused, and the eye of the two men met.
"The younger they are, M'sieur—the more thoroughbred—the gentler must be the touch. Otherwise——" He shrugged his shoulders, and brushed an imaginary crumb from the table.
"Yes, François," said Lethbridge, slowly, "otherwise——"
"They hurt their mouths, M'sieur; and that hurts those who love them. And sometimes it's not the youngster's fault."
The next moment he was bowing some new arrivals to a table, while Hugh Lethbridge stared thoughtfully across the crowded room to where the orchestra was preparing to give their next selection.
"Sometimes it's not the youngster's fault." He took the letter out of his pocket and read it through again, though every word of it was branded in letters of fire on his brain.
"I hope this won't give you too much of a shock," it began, "but I can't live with you any more."
"Too much of a shock!" Dear Heavens! It had been like a great, stunning blow from which he was still dazedly trying to recover.
"Nothing seems to count with you except your business and making money." Hugh's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "You grudge me every penny I spend; and then refuse to let me have my own friends."
Oh, Colt, Colt, how brutally untrue a half truth can be!