He laughed coarsely.
"It isn't only me that's talking about it. Everybody knows," he went on.
Everybody did not know. Pansy among the number.
"I don't believe a word you say," she said in an angry manner.
"Don't you? All right. Trot along then, and ask the manager. Ask anybody. They're all talking about it. You would be, too, except that you're so conceited that you never come and gossip with the crowd. Ask who is running that villa for Lucille Lemesurier, and they'll tell you it's that high and mighty French millionaire chap, Le Breton, the same as I do."
For a moment Pansy just stared at him, horror and disbelief on her face; then she turned quickly away. She did not go towards the dining-room, but towards the main entrance of the hotel.
She had never troubled to make any inquiries about Le Breton. She had liked him, and that was enough.
Pansy could not believe what the man said.
For all that, she was going to the fountain-head—to Le Breton—to hear what he had to say on the subject.