“Oh, nothing,” I answered with ill-feigned carelessness. “A bit worried, that’s all.”
“Worried over mademoiselle—eh?” he asked, fixing me with his keen eyes.
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Ah, I guessed as much,” he replied, with a sigh, placing his hat on the table and flinging himself into a chair. “Mind if I smoke? I’ve been busy all day, and am dying for a weed.”
“Smoke? Why, of course,” I answered, pushing my cigars and some matches before him.
I took one also, thinking that it might soothe my nerves, and when we had lit up he leaned back in his chair, and, looking at me curiously through the smoke, asked at last:
“What has occurred between you? Mademoiselle is leaving Paris to-morrow.”
“How did you know?”
“I called half an hour ago, and found both her and the Countess making preparations for a hasty departure. Have you quarrelled again?”
“No, there is no quarrel between us,” I answered gravely. “On the contrary, there is a perfect understanding.”