Louis yawned. "Oh, d——n time!" he said. "I never think of it."
"Then we'll start to-morrow at ten."
He drank off his wine and turned to look at Maryska. She had crept nearer while they talked, and her head was bent to the floor that she might not miss a word. When Faber held out his hand to her she leaned upon her elbows and looked at him with strange eyes.
"Good-bye, mister!"
"You are coming on my ship, Maryska."
"Not with that man," and she pointed to her father.
"Pouf!" said Louis. "I will flay you with the whip."
"And I will kill you with my knife," she said quickly, in Italian.
It was the customary exchange of their daily compliments. Louis rather liked it.
"Say," he exclaimed on the threshold, "and who may you be, anyway?"