I admitted that it was so, and Alphonse Giraud's emotion was such that he could only press my hand in silence.
"Ah, well!" he cried almost immediately, with the utmost gaiety. "We have begun late, but that is no reason why it should not be a good friendship—is it?"
And he took the chair I offered with such hearty good-will that my cold English sympathy was drawn towards him.
"I came but yesterday from the South," he went on. "Indeed, from La Pauline, where I have been paying a delightful visit. Madame de Clericy—so kind—and Mademoiselle Lucille—"
He twisted up the unsuccessful side of his mustache, and gave a quick little sigh. Then he remembered his scarf, and attended to the horseshoe pin that adorned it.
"You know my father," he said, suddenly, "the—er—Baron Giraud. He has been more fortunate than myself in making your acquaintance earlier."
I bowed and said what was necessary.
"A kind man—a dear man," said the Baron's son. "But no sportsman. Figure to yourself—he fears an open window."
He laughed and shrugged his little shoulders.
"I dare say many Englishmen would not understand him."