“You know,” he said lightly, “we French have a horror of any more mistakes like the Dreyfus case. We are terribly sensitive. Be assured that my Government will take up this affair instantly upon receiving my report.”
He turned to Barres:
“Would you, perhaps, offer me a day’s hospitality at your home in the country, if I should request it by telegram sometime this week or next?”
“You bet,” replied Barres cordially.
Then Renoux made his adieux, as only such a Frenchman can make them, saying exactly the right thing to each, in exactly the right manner.
When he was gone, Barres took Thessalie’s hands and pressed them:
“Pretty merle-blanc, your little friend Dulcie is already asleep. Tell us to-morrow how you convinced him that you are what you are—the dearest, sweetest girl in the world!”
She laughed demurely, then glanced apprehensively, sideways, at Westmore.
And the mute but infuriated expression on that young man’s countenance seemed to cause her the loss of all self-possession, for she cast one more look at him and fled with a hasty “good-night!”