"Take care," he said, his hand upon the other's arm.
"What do you mean?" asked Mr Davison. He was heated with pleasure and excitement. Mr Lintorn eyed him fixedly.
"Take care; you're spilling that ice."
The fact was correctly stated. Mr Davison was holding the plate in such a manner that the half-melted mass was dripping over the edge. Still it was scarcely necessary to stop him in order to tell him that; the more especially as it was the stoppage which was the cause of the ice being spilt.
Mr Davison saw Mdlle. de Fontanes home. Under the circumstances he could scarcely help it. When a lady is alone--we need not lay stress on such incidentals as youth and beauty--where is the man who would not proffer her his escort through the perils of the midnight streets? The night was fine, the breeze was warm; they lingered first in the gardens of the établissement to look upon the sea. Then they strolled gently through the Boulogne streets. They had told each other tales--unspoken tales--by the time they reached the Rue des Anges, but perhaps she understood his tale better than he did hers.
The lady paused. She addressed her cavalier,--
"This is our apartment. I am afraid my father will scold me."
"Scold you! Why?"
"You see, I am all he has, and so--I wait upon his pleasure. I am so seldom away from him that, when I am, even for a little time, he misses me. But will you not come in? Perhaps your presence may save me from my scolding."
Mr Davison was not in the mood, nor was he the man, to say "No" to such an invitation. He went in to save her from her scolding. They found the old gentleman in the salon, seated, in solitary state, in front of a table on which were a couple of packs of cards. His manner in greeting his daughter was more than a trifle acid.