Then poor Dorris, touched more by the voice than the words, threw herself into Ermengarde's arms, confessed some of her sins, and acknowledged herself—after consenting to a cup of tea, made on the spot and administered by Ermengarde, and much petting, rose-water and eau-de-Cologne—a sadder, a humbler, and a wiser girl.
But her place at table knew her no more, and the familiar gurgle and strident voice never again troubled the air of Les Oliviers. A few days later her parents followed her to Cannes; Dorris, they said, required younger and gayer society.
Chapter XX
The Necklace Again
"After all," Ivor said, as he walked with the Anarchist through the gardens of the Casino, now sleeping with doubled magic under a starry sky, "this isn't such a beastly hole. I've had a ripping time altogether."
De Konski looked at the bright-eyed, smiling face in amazed curiosity, touched with pity. He thought the look directed towards the lighted Casino somewhat wistful, and reflected that only an hour or two and the sumptuous farewell dinner they had just had at Giro's together divided this light-hearted youth from the despairing and perverse prodigal of the afternoon. The storm that had rushed up in a moment in indigo shadow from behind Bordighera had not passed more quickly than this young man's anguish and inward conflict.
"Thanks to you, I've come through this rotten business without a scratch," the laughing lips added. "If only——"
"If only?" echoed the Anarchist. "Ah! well for you that your word is given. Nothing short of that would keep you straight—off that rock."
"Oh, that's all right, thanks to you."
"And to no one else, Ivor? That was a long talk in the gardens this afternoon."