“Pleased to meet you,” he said; and offered a large hard hand. In fact everything about Mr. Fetterstein suggested hardness. He looked muscular and forceful. His hair was iron grey; the lines of his clean-shaven face were firm and grim; his jaw strong; his eyes shrewd; his voice had a determined rasp. Even his clothes were made of some hard, wear-resisting tweed.
“Now, come,” said Mrs. Belmire; “I positively insist on your admiring this view.”
“If you insist, Mrs. Belmire, there is nothing more to be said. But you know how looking at scenery always makes me hungry. Even now I’ve got an appetite I wouldn’t sell for a twenty dollar bill. I grant you this is fine all right. We haven’t got anything in the United States that could touch it. But for my part I’d rather look into the inside of a good car than at the finest bit of scenery the Lord ever made.”
“Oh, you horrid materialist! But you must excuse him, Mr. Kildair. His enthusiasm is entirely professional. Mr. Fetterstein makes automobiles in America somewhere....”
“Detroit, Michigan, ma’am. We have five factories running right now. In fact I’m over here to pick up pointers from French cars. I’ve got one down there that’s a hummer. But that reminds me, Mrs. Belmire, we’d better be getting ong root if we want to make Song Reemo in time for dayjoonay. Come on. Let’s get down if you’ve had enough of your old ruin.”
Mrs. Belmire sighed. “I’m sorry you don’t appreciate my ruin.”
“I guess it’s a first class ruin all right, but they ain’t much in my line. Now, Mrs. Belmire, if you’ll kindly give me a few pointers on roulette when we get back to Monte Carlo to-night, that’d make a hit with me.”
They descended to the village square where stood a long vicious-looking, torpedo-shaped car. It was painted a warm orange, with finishings of nickel. In the curving body was a well with two seats, and the whole thing looked like an aeroplane without wings.
“Twelve cylinders,” said Mr. Fetterstein, as he climbed into the raking seat. Mrs. Belmire looked distinctly nervous but bravely adjusted her cloak and veil. Mr. Fetterstein raced the engine, jammed in his first speed; the car leapt forward like a flame. Hugh saw it flashing down the white road and thrilled as it took the sharp curves. Then a shoulder of mountain hid it from his view.
“A most delightful woman,” he thought; “no wonder she has a lot of admirers. I wish I could call on her, but what’s the good. She’d only find out that I’m what Mr. Fetterstein would describe as a ‘four-flusher.’”