"He made his money in munitions, I believe," the girl reflected--"or perhaps it was oil."
"Then you do know him?"
"I met him one night, or rather one morning several weeks ago, with a gay party that joined ours at breakfast at Pré-Catelan."
"And do we still drive out to Pré-Catelan to milk the cows after an adventurous night, mademoiselle?" She nodded; and Lanyard sighed: "It is true, then: man ages, his follies never."
"A quaint little stupid," the girl mused.
"Pardon, mademoiselle?"
"I was thinking of Whitaker Monk."
"Quaint, I grant you. But hardly little, or stupid. A tall man, as thin as a diet, with a face like a comic mask of tragedy..."
"Paul dear," said Athenais Reneaux more in sorrow than in anger: "somebody has been taking advantage of your trusting nature. Whitaker Monk is short, hopelessly stout, and the most commonplace person imaginable."
"Then it would appear," Lanyard commented ruefully, "one did wisely to telegraph London for a keeper. Let us get hence, if you don't mind, and endeavour to forget my shame in strong drink and the indecorous dances of an unregenerate generation."