He bowed himself out. A courtier of Versailles at the levée of the Pompadour could not have made his speech and exit with better grace.
Later in the day Clementina received the reply from Etta.
“You darling, starting to-morrow. Arrive Lyons seven o’clock morning Thursday.”
Tommy, fired by the picture made by the bend of the Rhone and the Château-Fort de la Bâtie, spent most of the day on the quay, with the paraphernalia of his trade, easel and canvas and box of colours and brushes, painting delightedly, while Clementina, beneath an uncompromising white umbrella with a green lining, bought on her travels, sat near by reading many tales out of one uncomprehended novel. Just before dinner she informed him of the almost immediate arrival of Etta Concannon.
“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed in an injured voice. “That spoils everything.”
“I don’t think so,” said Clementina.
CHAPTER XI
Clementina motored to Lyons by herself; dined in gaunt and lonely splendour at the Grand Hotel, and met Etta Concannon’s train very early the next morning. Etta, dewy fresh after her all night train journey, threw her arms round her neck and kissed her effusively. She was a heaven-born darling, a priceless angel, and various other hyperbolical things. Yes, she had had a comfortable journey; no trouble at all; all sorts of nice men had come to her aid at the various stages. She had been up since five standing in the corridor and looking at the country which was fascinating. She had no idea it was so full of interest.
“And did one of the nice men get up at five too, and stand in the corridor?” asked Clementina.
The girl flushed and laughed. “How did you guess? I couldn’t help it. How could I? And it was quite safe. He was ever so old.”