Still I never felt the slightest physical fear; on the 254 contrary, as my irritation increased my disdain grew. It seemed a monstrous bit of insolence on the part of these overgrown cats to meditate an attack on me. Even though I began to feel that it was only a question of time when the moment must arrive, even though I gradually became certain that the first false move on my part would precipitate an attack, the knowledge left me almost indifferent.
That morning, as I left the training-cage—where, among others, Kelly Eyre stood looking on—I suddenly remembered Sylvia Elven and her message to Eyre, which I had never delivered.
We strolled towards the stables together; he was a pleasant, clean-cut, fresh-faced young fellow, a man I had never known very well, but one whom I was inclined to respect and trust.
“My son,” said I, politely, “do you think you have arrived at an age sufficiently mature to warrant my delivering to you a message from a pretty girl?”
“There’s no harm in attempting it, my venerable friend,” he replied, laughing.
“This is the message,'' I said: “On Sunday the book-stores are closed in Paris.”
“Who gave you that message, Scarlett?” he stammered.
I looked at him curiously, brutally; a red, hot blush had covered his face from neck to hair.
“In case you asked, I was to inform you,” said I, “that a Bretonne at Point Paradise sent the message.”
“A Bretonne!” he repeated, as though scared.