CHAPTER VIII
In the library of the villa, Le Breton sat alone. The hour was late, getting on to midnight. He was stretched in a deep chair smoking, his gaze fixed on a desk close by, on which was a wide, shallow, crystal bowl full of water where half a dozen purple pansies floated.
As he sat there indulging in some dream of his own, a door opened and he looked round sharply, by no means pleased at being roused from his reverie. The room was his special sanctum; no one was supposed to enter without his permission.
In the doorway Lucille stood, in a foamy white dressing-gown, her wealth of red hair in two thick ropes down her back.
On seeing her, a look of suppressed annoyance crossed his face.
"What is it?" he asked in a none too cordial tone.
She crossed to his side, and stood looking down at him anxiously.
"What has happened to you the last two days?" she asked.
"Happened to me! What do you mean?"
"You've been so very indifferent."