“There is a certain class of boisterous holiday-maker who might annoy you—not by downright ill-behavior, but by exercising a crude humor which is deemed peculiarly suitable to the seaside, though it would be none the less distressing to you.”
“In the States that sort of man gets shot,” she said, and her cheeks glowed with a rush of color.
“Here, on the contrary, he often takes the young lady’s arm and walks off with her,” persisted Medenham.
“I’m going to that pier,” she announced. “Guess you’d better escort me, Mr. Fitzroy.”
“Fate closes every door in my face,” he said sadly. “I cannot go with you—in that direction.”
“Well, of all the odd people!—why not that way, if any other?”
“Because Count Edouard Marigny, the gentleman whose name I could not help overhearing to-day, has just gone there—with another man.”
“Have you a grudge against him, too?”
“I never set eyes on him before six o’clock this evening, but I imagine you would not care to have him see you walking with your chauffeur.”