“Bah!” returned Deulin, throwing aside the book he had picked up—Lelewel's History of Poland, in Polish. “I trouble for your future, Cartoner. You take life so seriously—you, who need not work at all. Even uncles cannot live forever, and some day you will be in a position to lend money to poor devils of French diplomatists. Think of that!”
He reflected for a moment.
“Yes,” he said, after a pause, “I have news of all sorts—news which goes to prove that you are quite right to take an apartment instead of going to the hotel. The Mangles arrived here this morning—Mangles frere, Mangles soeur, and Miss Cahere. I say, Cartoner—” He paused, and examined his own boots with a critical air.
“I say, Cartoner, how old do you put me?”
“Fifty.”
“All that, mon cher?—all that? Old enough to play the part of an old fool who excels all other fools.”
Cartoner took up his pen again. He had suddenly thought of something to put down, and in his odd, direct way proceeded to write, while Deulin watched him.
“I say,” said the Frenchman at length, and Cartoner paused, pen in hand—“what would you think of me if I fell in love with Netty Cahere?”
“I should think you a very lucky man if Netty Cahere fell in love with you,” was the reply.
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.