Rex concealed a frown in the ample folds of the towel. It crossed his mind that the colonel might better have stayed and taken care of his own daughter. If he, Rex, had had a sister, would he have liked her to be on a Bavarian mountaintop in a company composed of a gamekeeper, the manager of a Paris theater and his wife, and a young person who was about to make her debut in opera-bouffe, and to have no better guardian than a roving young art student? Rex felt his unfitness for the post with a pang of compunction. Meantime he rubbed his head, and Monsieur Bordier talked tranquilly on. But between vexation and friction Gethryn lost the thread of Monsieur’s remarks for a while.
The first word which recalled his wandering attention was “Chamois?” and he saw that Monsieur Bordier was pointing to the game bag and looking amiably at Sepp, who, divided between sulkiness at Monsieur’s native language and goodwill toward anyone who seemed to be accepted by his “Herrschaften,” was in two minds whether to open the bag and show the game to this smiling Frenchman, or “to say him a Grobheit” and go away. Sepp’s “Grobheit” could be very insulting indeed when he cared to make it so. Rex hastened to turn the scale.
“Yes, Herr Director, this is Sepp, one of the duke’s best gamekeepers—Monsieur speaks German?” he interrupted himself to ask in French.
“Parfaitement! Well,” he went on in Sepp’s native tongue, “Herr Director, in Sepp you see one of the best woodsmen in Bavaria, one of the best shots in Germany. Sepp, we must show the Herr Director our Gems.”
And there was nothing for Sepp but to open the bag, sheepish, beaten, laughing in spite of himself, and before he knew it they all three had their heads together over the game in perfect amity.
A step sounded along the front platform, and Madame looked round the corner of the house, saying that lunch was ready. Her husband and Rex joined her immediately. “Ze young ladees are wizin,” she said, and led the way.
The sun-glare on the limestone rocks outside made the little room seem almost black at first, and all Rex could distinguish as he followed the others was Ruth’s bright smile as she stood near the door and a jumble of dark figures farther back.
“Permit me,” said Monsieur, “to introduce you to our Belle Hélène.” Rex had already bowed low, seeing nothing. “Mademoiselle Descartes—Monsieur Gethryn—” Rex raised his head and looked into the white face of Yvonne.
“Ah, yes! as I was saying,” gossiped Monsieur while they were taking their places at table, “I shoot when I can, but merely the partridge and rabbit of the turnip. Bah! a man may not boast of that!”
Rex kept his eyes fixed on the speaker and forced himself to understand what was being said.