On the stroke of eight Mr Davison made his appearance in the Rue des Anges. His entry made a small sensation. Mdlle. de Fontanes, advancing to meet him, stopped short with a little cry.
"Mr Davison! Oh, what is the matter! Are--are you ill?"
Mr Davison turned the colour of a boiled beetroot.
"I do not understand you," he said.
The father's tact was finer than the daughter's.
"On the stroke of the hour!" he murmured, extending his hand to greet his guest, as though guests with patched chins and black eyes were everyday occurrences.
They sat down to play. Before they commenced Mr Davison delivered himself of a few remarks.
"You must understand, M. de Fontanes, that I have lost more than I quite care to lose. Therefore, I cannot afford to play for trifling stakes. I suggest with your permission, that we commence with five-pound points."
"Five-pound points!" cried mademoiselle. Her distress seemed genuine.
"I said five-pound points."