In another moment she was gone, with a rustle of silk and a gracious smile.
Bertram was alarmed by those words of hers. Were they merely “French” in their general sentiment, or a particular warning? They disturbed him profoundly.
He walked with Kenneth through the Marché St. Honoré as far as the Embassy. Kenneth seemed talkative, discussing those friends of his, as though wishing to avoid other topics.
Bertram broke in across one of his subtleties.
“You’ve seen a good deal of Joyce lately?”
For just a second—no more than that—Kenneth hesitated in his reply.
“Yes. Longchamps—the Bois—the opera, and so on, in the usual way. It’s been beautiful weather lately, don’t you think?”
Bertram was silent. He was not interested in the weather.
“You know that Joyce and I have not seen things altogether eye to eye lately? She told you that?”
Kenneth again hesitated before his answer, as though weighing his words with diplomatic caution.