“Allez, donc! I’ll never speak to you again.”
She ran up the stairs. He stood irresolute.
“Anyhow, not now,” she added. “I may be out in an hour’s time.”
Miss Walker was holding the door open. He hurried away, and Françoise saw him, wondering why he had called.
And for hours thereafter, until night fell, a white-faced woman paced restlessly to and fro in the sitting-room, ever and anon raising the window, and watching for Martin’s return with a fierce intensity that rendered her almost maniacal in appearance.
Happily, the boy was unaware of the pitiful tragedy in the life of the rich and highly placed Mrs. Saumarez. While she waited, with a rage steadily dwindling into a wearied despair, he was passing, all unconsciously, into the next great phase of his career.
He took one forward step into the unknown before leaving the tree-lined drive. He met Fritz, the chauffeur, who was so absorbed in the study of a folding road-map that he did not see Martin until the latter hailed him.
“Hello!” was the boy’s cheery greeting. “That affair is ended. Please don’t say anything to Mrs. Saumarez.”
The German closed the map.
“Whad iss ented?” he inquired, surveying Martin with a cool hauteur rare in chauffeurs.