There are some men whose vanity cannot be controlled when they are brought into the presence of women. De Rothan was such a man. He was the peacock on the instant, strutting, swaggering, not content unless he outshone all other men.
"Though an exile, the English women have almost made me forget my France. Why is it, Mees Durrell, that the English women have such beautiful skins? Roses and milk, roses and milk."
Nance said nothing. The man's voice had driven her into a confusion of conjectures. If he were an old friend of her father's, how was it she had never heard of him before? And why all this midnight mystery, the stealthy coming by night?
She realised that both De Rothan and her father were watching her. It was imperative that she should speak to him, or seem like a gauche child.
"I am glad to see an old friend of my father's."
"Mees Durrell, will you make me old!"
"I don't think you are very young!"
He laughed and bowed.
"Mam'selle, your father is the cleverest of men. But to have such a daughter! That was a stroke of genius."
Nance smiled, but there was no pleasure in her smile. She supposed these were French manners, but they made her feel foolish and ill at ease.