Then Raymond, in his slow French, gave the invitation on his own behalf; but the Pont Aven men were not slow-witted, and courteously excused their further attendance.
"I've a notion that a gargle of some sort wouldn't come amiss," observed Popple thoughtfully.
"I can't drink now," fumed Fosdyke. "Raymond, a word with you!"
Raymond, however, had been furtively engaged in taking stock of Rupert Fosdyke during the last few days.
"Sorry," he said, "but our chat must be postponed. Mrs. Carmac would be exceedingly annoyed if she heard that we were inhospitable. You ought not to have spoken the way you did before those French gentlemen. It was distinctly bad form."
If a timid hare coursed by a greyhound were suddenly to turn and admonish its pursuer, the dog would hardly be more surprised than Fosdyke when this queer-looking little secretary dared to chide him. He was so completely taken aback that he laughed.
"I guess you're right," he said. "Order a bottle of champagne. I'll ask those fellows to dinner, and do them well. Then they'll forgive me. Lead on, Macduff! And cursed be he who first cries 'Hold! Enough!'"
Fosdyke's changed mood was distinctly more agreeable. Popple, for one, deemed him a rather peppery young gentleman, but none the worse because he spoke out freely.
"Life's a rum thing, anyhow," said the skipper, when the three were seated in the dining room of the hotel, which was otherwise empty. "About this very hour this day week the Stella was makin' bad weather of it off some little islands north of the Aven. I wanted to put in here; but Mrs. Carmac wouldn't hear of it. I must push on for Lorient, she said—an' the pore gentleman we've just planted on top of the hill there was chaffin' her about bein' afraid o' spooks. Sink me! Who's the spook now?"