“Bravo!”
There, by the door, stood Fiorsen.
“Congratulations, madame! I have long wanted to see you under the inspiration of your—master!”
Gyp's heart began to beat desperately. Monsieur Harmost had not moved. A faint grin slowly settled in his beard, but his eyes were startled.
Fiorsen kissed the back of his own hand.
“To this old Pantaloon you come to give your heart. Ho—what a lover!”
Gyp saw the old man quiver; she sprang up and cried:
“You brute!”
Fiorsen ran forward, stretching out his arms toward Monsieur Harmost, as if to take him by the throat.
The old man drew himself up. “Monsieur,” he said, “you are certainly drunk.”