“Votre nom?”
“Armand Gervase.”
“Entrez!”
“Et moi?” queried Fulkeward, with a conciliatory smile.
“Non! Pas vous. Monsieur Armand Gervase, seul!”
Fulkeward gave a resigned shrug of his shoulders; Gervase looked round at him ere he crossed the threshold of the mysterious habitation.
“I’m sorry you have to walk back alone.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Fulkeward affably. “You see, you have come on business. You’re going to paint the Princess’s picture; and I daresay this blessed old rascal knows that I want nothing except to look at his mistress and wonder what she’s made of.”
“What she’s made of?” echoed Gervase in surprise. “Don’t you think she’s made like other women?”
“No; can’t say I do. She seems all fire and vapor and eyes in the middle, don’cher know. Oh, I’m an ass—always was—but that’s the feeling she gives me. Ta-ta! Wish you a pleasant morning!”