The middle-aged man glanced sideways at him with true British suspicion—I dare say a pickpocket, a Rouge, and Fieschi, were all mixed up in his mind as embodied in the graceful figure and bold glance of the Lion. He drew the girl on, looking much like a heavy cloud with a bright sun ray after it; but she half turned her head over her shoulder to give him a farewell smile, which Ernest returned with ten per cent. interest.
"Anglais," said Emile, concisely.
"Malheureusement," said Ernest as briefly, as he pushed his way into the air, and saw the gold hair vanish into her carriage. He went quickly up to the cocher.
"Où demeurent-ils, mon ami?" he whispered, slipping a five-franc piece into his hand.
The man smiled. "A l'Hôtel de Londres, monsieur; No. 6, au premier."
"The devil! pourquoir ne allez pas?" said an unmistakably English voice from the interior of the voiture. The man set off at a trot; Ernest sprang into his own trap.
"Au Chateau Rouge! May as well go there, eh, Emile? What a deuced pity la chevelure dorée is English!"
"I wish she were a danseuse, an actress, a fleuriste—anything one could make his own introduction to. Confound it there's the 'heavy father,' I'm afraid, in the case, and some rigorous mamma, or vigilant béguine of a governess: but, to judge by the young lady's smiles, she'll be easy game unless she's tremendously fenced in."
With which consolatory reflection Vaughan leaned back and lighted a cheroot, en route to spend the night as he had spent most of them for the last ten years, till the fan had begun to be more bore than pleasure.