Durrell gave them one of his austere smiles. He was happy, exultant, and saw nothing sinister in De Rothan's playfulness.
"All in good time—all in good time. Nance has not had all that she might have had."
"What, sir! And she has so much already! Most of the women would think she had too much."
He bowed to Nance.
"One may not drink to beauty—in tea. The sparkling wine of France! I imagine that I drink it to you, Mees Nance."
The girl was silent and irresponsive. Perhaps De Rothan felt challenged; perhaps she pleased him more than he had expected. Before the meal was over some of the froth had been blown from his fooling. The man was more than half in earnest. The expression of his eyes changed. They betrayed a subtle, gloating, admiration that is seen at times in the eyes of men.
De Rothan's leave-taking was half insolent, half tender. It had always been his way to treat women with audacity. He attacked them with the bold ferocity of his self-confidence.
"Mees Nance, this is the first day of spring. I kiss your hands. I felicitate your father. Never will he produce another such poem."
His bold eyes thrust his admiration into her face. Durrell was still living in dreams.
"Must you go, my friend? Well, well, now that you are in these parts, we shall see you more often."