“Dirk DeJong! Not—why, say, don’t you know me? I’m Roelf Pool!”
“I ought to know you,” said Dirk.
“Oh, but I mean I’m—I knew you when you were a kid. You’re Selina’s Dirk. Aren’t you? My Selina. I’m driving out to see her this afternoon. She’s one of my reasons for being here. Why, I’m” He was laughing, talking excitedly, like a boy. Dallas, all agrin, was enjoying it immensely.
“They’ve run away,” she explained to Dirk, “from the elaborate programme that was arranged for them this afternoon. I don’t know where the French got their reputation for being polite. The General is a perfect boor, aren’t you? And scared to death of women. He’s the only French general in captivity who ever took the trouble to learn English.”
General Goguet nodded violently and roared. “And you?” he said to Dirk in his careful and perfect English. “You, too, are an artist?”
“No,” Dirk said, “not an artist.”
“What, then?”
““Why—uh—bonds. That is, the banking business. Bonds.”
“Ah, yes,” said General Goguet, politely. “Bonds. A very good thing, bonds. We French are very fond of them. We have great respect for American bonds, we French.” He nodded and twinkled and turned away to Dallas.
“We're all going,” announced Dallas, and made a dash for the stuffy little bedroom off the studio.
