“He is then, rich—Doggie?”
“He has a fine house of his own in the country, with many servants and automobiles, and—wait”—he made a swift arithmetical calculation—“and an income of eighty thousand francs a year.”
“Comment?” cried Jeanne sharply, with a little frown.
Phineas McPhail was enjoying himself, basking in the sunshine of Doggie’s wealth. Also, when conversation in French resolved itself into the statement of simple facts, he could get along famously. So the temptation of the glib phrase outran his discretion.
“Doggie has a fortune of about two million francs.”
“Il doit faire un beau mariage,” said Jeanne, with stony calm.
Phineas suddenly became aware of pitfalls and summoned his craft and astuteness and knowledge of affairs. He smiled, as he thought, encouragingly.
“The only fine marriage is with the person one loves.”
“Not always, monsieur,” said Jeanne, who had watched the gathering of the sagacities with her deep eyes. “In any case”—she rose and held out her hand—“our friend will be well looked after in England.”
“Like a prince,” said Phineas.