“But Cartier,” persisted Margot, “who gave you your music lessons, surely he will not treat you like that?”
“He is away in Russia,” said Jean; “he does not return till the spring.”
The two young creatures looked at each other something passed between them which contradicted the expectancy of youth. Their glance was measured, anxious, guarded. It resulted in Margot’s saying, “How long is it now, Jean, since you left the Bank?”
“It is three months,” said Jean.
“How hard it is raining,” exclaimed Margot thoughtfully. “You ought to get a new pair of boots. Those are very smart you have on, but rain would go through them as if they were made of silk.”
“I do not think they would take me back,” said Jean wistfully; he did not want to think the Bank would take him back.
“Perhaps not,” agreed Margot. “After all, the hours are not so long,” she added.
“My aunt, Miss Prenderghast, wrote to my Uncle Romain to tell him I had left it,” said Jean. “She says I have ruined my life!”
“Bah!” exclaimed Margot, “the English are a race of wet cats! I have heard they never even dance on Sundays. Don’t concern yourself with anyone so ill-natured. After all, that Director of the Bank was a friend of your uncle.”
“To-morrow, then,” said Jean, with a deep sigh, “I think I will go and ask if they will take me on again.” But Jean never quite knew how he had arrived at this decision. Margot sighed, too; but hers was a sigh of relief.