Hubert turned toward the wall, and upon it he recognized the stepfather of Berenice. After staring at each other like two moon-struck wights, the American spoke:—
"I swear that I, alone, am to blame for this—" The other wore the grin of a malevolent satyr. His voice was thick.
"Why apologize, Hubert? You know that it has been my devoted wish that you marry Berenice." He swayed on his perch. Hubert's brain was in a fog.
"Berenice!" said he.
"Yes—Berenice. Why not? She loves you."
"Then—you—Madame Mineur—" stammered Hubert. The Frenchman placed his finger on his nose and slyly whispered:—
"Don't be afraid! I'll not tell my wife that I caught Berenice with you alone in the park—you Don Juan! Now to the portrait—I must see that masterpiece of yours. Berenice wrote me about it." He nodded his head sleepily.
"Berenice wrote you about it!" was the mechanical reply.
"I'll join you and we'll go to the house." He tried to step down, but rolled over at Hubert's feet.
"What a joke is this champagne," he growled as he was lifted to his tottering legs. "We had a glorious time this afternoon before I left Paris. Hurrah! You're to be my son-in-law. And, my boy, I don't envy you—that's the truth. With such a little demon for a wife—I pity you, pity you—hurrah!"