“Betty!” cried Mrs. Errington.
“Alas, Madame,” said Aristide, “that is the despair of our artificial civilization. It prohibits so much spontaneous expression of emotion.”
“You’ll forgive me, Monsieur Pujol,” said Mrs. Errington dryly, “but I think our artificial civilization has its advantages.”
“If you will forgive me, in your turn,” said Aristide, “I see a doubtful one advancing.”
A man approached the group and with profuse gestures took off a straw hat which he thrust under his right arm, exposing an amazingly flat head on which the closely cropped hair stood brush-fashion upright. He had an insignificant pale face to which a specious individuality was given by a moustache with ends waxed up to the eyes and by a monocle with a tortoise shell rim. He was dressed (his valet had misjudged things—and valets like the rest of us are fallible) in what was yesterday a fairly white flannel suit.
“Madame—Mademoiselle.” He shook hands with charming grace. “Monsieur.” He bowed stiffly. Aristide doffed his Panama hat with adequate ceremony. “May I be permitted to join you?”
“With pleasure, Monsieur de Lussigny,” said Mrs. Errington.
Monsieur de Lussigny brought up a chair and sat down.
“What time did you get to bed, last night?” asked Betty Errington. She spoke excellently pure French, and so did her mother.
“Soon after we parted, mademoiselle, quite early for me but late for you. And you look this morning as if you had gone to bed at sundown and got up at dawn.”