“Yes,” I answered; “but the Count is an old habitué, I believe?”
“Oh yes,” she laughed; “he knows everybody. Last year he was on the Fêtes Committee and one of the judges at the Battle of Flowers.”
And so we gossiped on, walking leisurely, and passing many who, like ourselves, were idling in the winter sunshine.
There was an air of refined ingenuousness about her that was particularly attractive. She walked well, holding her skirt tightly about her as only a true Parisienne can, and displaying a pair of extremely neat ankles. She inquired about me—how long had I been in the Count’s service, how I liked him, and such-like; while I, by careful questioning, discovered that her name was Gabrielle Deleuse, and that she came to the Côté d’Azur each season.
Just as we were opposite the white façade of the Hôtel Westminster we encountered a short, rather stout, middle-aged lady, accompanied by a tall, thin, white-haired gentleman. They were well dressed, the lady wearing splendid sables.
My companion started when she recognised them, instantly lowering her sunshade in order to hide her face. Whether the pair noticed her I cannot say. I only know that, as soon as they passed, she exclaimed, in annoyance—
“I can’t think why Bindo sent you along here with me.”
“I regret, mademoiselle, that my companionship should be distasteful to you,” I replied, mystified.
“No, no, not that, m’sieur,” she cried anxiously. “I do not mean that. You do not know—how can you know what I mean?”
“You probably mean that you ought not to be seen walking here, on the Promenade des Anglais, with a common chauffeur.”