Miss Betty’s glance responsive to the compliment filled Aristide with wrath. What right had the Comte de Lussigny, a fellow who consorted with Brazilian Rastaquouères and perfumed Levantine nondescripts, to win such a glance from Betty Errington?
“If Mademoiselle can look so fresh,” said he, “in the artificial atmosphere of Aix, what is there of adorable that she must not resemble in the innocence of her Somersetshire home?”
“You cannot imagine it, Monsieur,” said the Count; “but I have had the privilege to see it.”
“I hope Monsieur Pujol will visit us also in our country home, when we get back,” said Mrs. Errington with intent to pacificate. “It is modest, but it is old-world and has been in our family for hundreds of years.”
“Ah, these old English homes!” said Aristide.
“Would you care to hear about it?”
“I should,” said he.
He drew his chair courteously a foot or so nearer that of the mild lady; Monsieur de Lussigny took instant advantage of the move to establish himself close to Miss Betty. Aristide turned one ear politely to Mrs. Errington’s discourse, the other ragingly and impotently to the whispered conversation between the detached pair.
Presently a novel fell from the lady’s lap. Aristide sprang to his feet and restored it. He remained standing. Mrs. Errington consulted a watch. It was nearing lunch time. She rose, too. Aristide took her a pace or two aside.
“My dear Mrs. Errington,” said he, in English. “I do not wish to be indiscreet—but you come from your quiet home in Somerset and your beautiful daughter is so young and inexperienced, and I am a man of the world who has mingled in all the society of Europe—may I warn you against admitting the Comte de Lussigny too far into your intimacy.”