"What?"
"The work—your ship filled with gasping unfortunates from the city!"
"Do you happen to know of any reason why an idle ship should not be used for some such purpose?"
"None, whatever," she said demurely, quite willing that he should adjust the matter to suit himself. His touchiness upon the subject of his own benefactions remanded her pleasurably of Reifferscheid. Her inward joy was to study in Peter Stock the unacknowledged influence of Father Fontanel—or was it an unconscious influence? The American's further activities unfolded:
"By the way, have you been reading the French paper here—Les Colonies?"
Paula had not.
"The editor, M. Mondet, is the smug authority for a statement yesterday that Saint Pierre is in absolutely no danger from the mountain. Now, of course, this may be true, but he doesn't know it—unless he should have the Dealer in Destiny on the wire. There is always a big enough percentage of foolish virgins in a city, so it peeved me to find one in the sole editorial capacity. My first impulse was to calk up the throat of M. Mondet with several sheets of his abominable assurances. This I restrained, but nevertheless I called upon him to-day. His next issue appears day after to-morrow, and my idea is for him to print a vigorous warning against Pelée. Why, he could clear the town of ten thousand people for a few days—until the weather settles. Incidentally, if the mountain took on a sudden destroying streak—just see what he would have done! Some glory in saving lives on that scale."
"Vine leaves, indeed," said Paula, "Did M. Mondet tell you he would print this warning?"
"Not exactly. He pointed out the cost of detaching a third of the city's inhabitants. I told him how this cost could be brought down within reason, and showed myself not unwilling to back the exodus. I'm a practical man, Miss Wyndam, and these things look bigger than they really are. But you never can tell what a tubby little Frenchman will do. It's atrocious for a man in his position to say that a volcano won't volcane—sorely tempting to old Father Pelée—a sort of challenge. It would be bad enough to play Pilate and wash his hands of the city's danger—but to be a white-lipped, kissing Judas at the last supper of Saint Pierre——"
"Did you tell him that?" Paula asked hastily.