"Georges" was Captain de Lavardens, his son, a young man with good looks, and brains, an officer for whom people predicted a brilliant future.
"Georges is all right," he said hesitatingly. "He is dining with me to-night. I want you to come, too, if you can. Are you free?"
"To-night? Yes, certainly; I shall be delighted."
"That was one of the reasons I came round—to ask you to join us." He glanced towards the table again. "Are you sure you are not in a hurry to get back to that?"
"Have a cigar, and don't be a fool. What have you got to say for yourself? Why are you on the spree here?"
"I came up to see Georges," he said. "As a matter of fact, my dear chap, I am devilish worried."
"Not about Georges?" I asked, surprised.
He grunted. "About Georges."
"Really? I'm very sorry."
"Yes. I wanted to talk to you about it. You may be able to give me a tip. Georges—the boy I hoped so much for"—his gruff voice quivered— "is infatuated with an actress."