“If you are a chauffeur, m’sieur, you are also a gentleman,” she said, looking straight into my face.
“I thank mademoiselle for her high compliment,” I said, bowing, for really I was in no way averse to a little mild flirtation with such a delightful companion. And yet what, I wondered, was my rôle in this latest piece of complicated trickery?
She quickened her pace, glancing anxiously at everyone we met, as though wishing to arrive at the end of our walk.
I was sorry our little chat was drawing to a close. I would like to have had her at my side for a day’s run on the car, and I told her so.
“Perhaps you will take me for a long trip one day—who knows?” she laughed. “Yesterday it was perfect.”
A few moments later we arrived before the Suisse, and from a seat on the Promenade Count Bindo rose to greet us. He had left his motor-coat and cap in the car, and stood before us in his grey flannels and white soft felt hat—a smart, handsome figure, such as women mostly admire. Indeed, Bindo was essentially a lady’s man, for he seemed to have a bowing acquaintance with hundreds of the fair sex.
“Well, Gabrielle, and has Ewart been saying lots of pretty things to you—eh?”
“How unkind of you!” she protested, blushing slightly. “You really ought not to say such things.”
“Well, well, forgive me, won’t you?” said the Count quickly; and together we strolled into the town, where we had an aperatif at the gay Café de l’Opéra, opposite the public gardens.
Here, however, a curious contretemps occurred.