In spite of himself, in spite of his British horror of displaying emotion, the doctor’s voice shook a little.
“Mais non! Mais non. Rien de tout,” returned his companion, with a reassuring smile. “Madame is suffering a little from her ‘cure.’ That is only to be expected. Pardon!” he laughed genially. “For the moment I forgot I was not speaking to a layman.”
The doctor laughed also, and tried to forget that the mere mention of his wife’s name had set his heart beating.
He applied himself to his dinner.
“Did I understand that you’re going to leave Paris for long?” he asked. “I think you said you had been to say good-bye to Madge—to my wife?”
“I’m really uncertain,” returned François, regarding him with keen smiling eyes. “I’m over here on business connected with the exhibition to which your countrymen with more politeness than discretion have elected me President. After that?” He shrugged his shoulders with a characteristic gesture. “I don’t know. A journey to Egypt, perhaps. But that depends on circumstances. Did I tell you that Miss Page is coming home? She may even be in Paris by this time. Mrs. Dakin is evidently looking forward to seeing her.”
For a moment the doctor was silent.
“Miss Page is an old friend of yours—a great friend?” he asked suddenly.
“I think I may say my best and dearest friend.”
At the mention of Anne’s name an imperceptible change crept into his manner. An undercurrent of irony, too subtle for his companion’s apprehension, vanished from his voice and from his words, which were grave and deliberate.