In the pause the Editor had changed his attitude, faced his desk, and smiled a faint knowing smile.
“Striking girl—eh?” he said.
The incongruity of the word was enough to make one jump out of the chair. Striking! That girl striking! Stri . . .! But Renouard restrained his feelings. His friend was not a person to give oneself away to. And, after all, this sort of speech was what he had come there to hear. As, however, he had made a movement he re-settled himself comfortably and said, with very creditable indifference, that yes—she was, rather. Especially amongst a lot of over-dressed frumps. There wasn’t one woman under forty there.
“Is that the way to speak of the cream of our society; the ‘top of the basket,’ as the French say,” the Editor remonstrated with mock indignation. “You aren’t moderate in your expressions—you know.”
“I express myself very little,” interjected Renouard seriously.
“I will tell you what you are. You are a fellow that doesn’t count the cost. Of course you are safe with me, but will you never learn. . . .”
“What struck me most,” interrupted the other, “is that she should pick me out for such a long conversation.”
“That’s perhaps because you were the most remarkable of the men there.”
Renouard shook his head.
“This shot doesn’t seem to me to hit the mark,” he said calmly. “Try again.”