“Yesterday I wished to avoid embarrassments,” I said; “I was to represent your views about Greenland. I might have misunderstood you in some important matter.”
“I see, I see,” he said conciliatorily. “Yesterday we spoke English for the benefit of the British public. When we speak French we are not in public, I hope.” He had a semi-supplicating manner.
“Everything’s rather too much in public here,” I answered. My part as I imagined it was that of a British brother defending his sister from questionable attentions—the person who “tries to show the man he isn’t wanted.” But de Mersch didn’t see the matter in that light at all. He could not, of course. He was as much used to being purred to as my aunt to looking down on non-county persons. He seemed to think I was making an incomprehensible insular joke, and laughed non-committally. It wouldn’t have been possible to let him know he wasn’t wanted.
“Oh, you needn’t be afraid of my brother,” she said suddenly. “He is quite harmless. He is even going to give up writing for the papers except when we want him.”
The Duc turned from me to her, smiled and bowed. His smile was inane, but he bowed very well; he had been groomed into that sort of thing or had it in the blood.
“We work together still?” he asked.
“Why not?” she answered.
A hubbub of angry voices raised itself behind my back. It was one of the contretemps that made the Salon Grangeur famous throughout the city.
“You forced yourself upon me. Did I say anywhere that you were responsible? If it resembles your particular hell upon earth, what is that to me? You do worse things; you, yourself, monsieur. Haven’t I seen ... haven’t I seen it?”
The Duc de Mersch looked swiftly over his shoulder toward the window.