"Well? Where is she?"
"Felicite," stammered Dreux, "d-don't cause a scene."
Miss Delord stamped a ridiculously small foot and cried again, oblivious of all save her black jealousy:
"Where is she, I say? Eh? You fear to answer. You shield her, perhaps." A plump brown hand darted forth and seized Bernie by the ear, giving it a tweak like the bite of a parrot.
"Ouch!" he exclaimed, loudly. "Felicite, you'll ruin us!"
A waiter began to laugh in smothered tones.
"Tell me," stormed the diminutive fury. "It is time we had a settlement, she and I. I will lead you to her by those ass's ears of yours and let her hear the truth from your own mouth."
"Miss Delord, you do Bernie an injustice," Norvin said, placatingly.
She turned swiftly. "Injustice? Bah! He is a flirt, a loathsome trifler. What could be more abominable?"
"Felicite! D-don't make a scene," groaned the unhappy Dreux, nursing his ear and staring about the cafe with frightened, appealing eyes.