Sidney drew in his feet and coughed. Some of his smoke had gone astray.
Mr. Bodery looked sympathetic.
“Yes,” he said calmly, “that really seems to be the case.”
“And newspaper men,” pursued the Vicomte, “what are they? Men of no education, no position, no sense of honour. The great aim of politicians in France to-day is the aggrandisement of themselves.”
Mr. Bodery yawned.
“Ah!” he said, with a glance towards Sidney.
Perhaps the Frenchman saw the glance, perhaps he was deceived by the yawn. At all events, he rose and expressed a desire to retire to his room. He was tired, he said, having been travelling all the previous night.
Mr. Bodery had not yet finished his cigar, so he rose and shook hands without displaying any intention of following the Vicomte's example.
Sidney lighted a candle, one of many standing on a side table, and led the way upstairs. They walked through the long, dimly lighted corridors in silence, and it was only when they had arrived in the room set apart for the Vicomte d'Audierne that this gentleman spoke.
“By the way,” he said, “who is this person—this Mr. Bodery? He was not a friend of your father's.” Sidney was lighting the tall candles that stood upon the dressing-table, and the combined illumination showed with remarkable distinctness the reflection of his face in the mirror. From whence he stood the Frenchman could see this reflection.