“I was hoping that I might have the pleasure of driving you this evening,” he said. “The run through the pass is very interesting, and I know every inch of it.”
He fancied that she was conscious of some mistake, and eager to atone if in the wrong.
She hesitated, yielded almost, but Mrs. Devar broke in angrily:
“We have decided differently, Fitzroy. I have some few postcards to dispatch, and Count Marigny has kindly promised to run slowly up the hill until we overtake him.”
“Yes, you ought to have waited in the yard of the inn for orders,” said the ever-smiling Marigny. “My car can hardly pass yours in this narrow road. Back a bit to one side, there’s a good fellow, and, when we have gone, pull up to the door. Come, Miss Vanrenen. I am fierce to show you the paces of a Du Vallon.”
The concluding sentences were in French, but Count Edouard spoke idiomatic English fluently and with a rather fascinating accent.
Cynthia, slightly ruffled by her own singular lack of purpose, made no further demur. The three walked off down the hill, and Medenham could only obey in a chill rage that, were Marigny able to gauge its intensity, might have given him “furiously to think.”
In a few minutes the Du Vallon scurried by. Smith was driving, and there was a curious smirk on his red face as he glanced at Medenham. Cynthia sat in the tonneau with the Frenchman, who drew her attention to the limestone cliffs in such wise that she did not even see the Mercury as she passed.
Medenham muttered something under his breath, and reversed slowly back to the inn. He consulted his watch.
“I’ll give the postcard writer ten minutes—then I shall jar her nerves badly,” he promised himself.