“Even I. Having embraced Félise, breakfasted, washed and viewed Brantôme proceeding to its daily labours, I thought it high time to arouse you from your unlarklike slumbers.”
Saying this he passed Martin and drew aside the curtains so that the morning light flooded the room. He was still attired in his sober black with the avoué’s white tie which bore the traces of an all-night journey. Then he sat down on the bed, while Martin, in pyjamas and bare-foot, took up an irresolute position on the cold boards.
“I generally get up a bit later,” said Martin with an air of apology.
“So I gather from my excellent brother-in-law. Well,” said Fortinbras, “how are you faring in Arcadia?”
“Capitally,” replied Martin. “I’ve never felt so fit in my life. But I’m jolly glad you’ve come.”
“You want another consultation? I am ready to give you one. The usual fee, of course. Oh, not now!” As Martin turned to the dressing table where lay a small heap of money, he raised a soft, arresting hand. “The hour is too early for business even in France. I have no doubt Corinna is equally anxious to consult me. How is she?”
“Much the same as usual,” said Martin.
“By which you would imply that she belongs to the present stubborn and stiff-necked generation of young Englishwomen. I hope you haven’t suffered unduly.”
“I? Oh, Lord, no!” Martin replied, with a laugh. “Corinna goes her way and I go mine. Occasionally when there’s only one way to go—well, it isn’t hers.”
“You’ve put your foot down.”