“It’s me, Pierrette,” replied the handsome young adventurer, mounting upon the step and looking within.
“You! Ah! Why—it’s M’sieur Bellingham!” she cried excitedly, raising herself and putting out her hand encased in one of my greasy old fur gloves. “Were you waiting for us?”
“Of course I was. Didn’t I tell you I would?” replied Bindo in French—a language which he spoke with great fluency. “You got my telegram to say that Ewart had started—eh? Well, how has the car been running—and how has Ewart treated you?”
“He has treated me—well, as you say in your English, ‘like a father’!” she laughed merrily; “and, oh! I’ve had such a delightful ride.”
“But you must be cold, little one,” he said, patting her upon the shoulder. “It’s a long run from Paris to Nice, you know.”
“I’m not tired,” she assured him. “I’ve slept quite a lot. And M’sieur Ewart has looked after me, and given me hot bouillon, coffee, eggs, and all sorts of things—even to chocolates!”
“Ah! Ewart is a sad dog with the ladies, I’m afraid,” he said in a reproving tone, glancing at me. “But if you’ll make room for me, and give me a bit of your rug, I’ll go on with you.”
“Of course, my dear friend,” she exclaimed, rising, throwing off the rugs, and settling herself into the opposite corner, “you will come along with us to Monte Carlo. Are those lights over there, on the right, Nice?”
“They are, and beyond that lighthouse there, is Villefranche. Right behind it lies Beaulieu.”
And then, the pair having wrapped themselves up, we moved off again.