“Then he is yours?” cried Hastings.
“Of course. It’s a pleasant change for him, this playing tag with policemen, but he is known now and I’ll have to stop it. He’s gone home. He always does when the gardeners take a hand. It’s a pity; he’s fond of rolling on lawns.” Then they chatted for a moment of Hastings’ prospects, and Clifford politely offered to stand his sponsor at the studio.
“You see, old tabby, I mean Dr. Byram told me about you before I met you,” explained Clifford, “and Elliott and I will be glad to do angthing we can.” Then looking at his watch again he muttered, “I have just ten minutes to catch the Versailles train; au revoir,” and started to go, but catching sight of a girl advancing by the fountain took off his hat with a confused smile.”
“Why are you not at Versailles?” she said, with an almost imperceptible acknowledgment of Hastings’ presence.
“I—I’m going,” murmured Clifford.
For a moment they faced each other, and then Clifford, very red, stammered, “With your permission I have the honor of presenting to you my friend Monsieur Hastings.”
Hastings bowed low. She smiled very sweetly, but there was something of malice in the quiet inclination of her small Parisienne head.
“I could have wished,” she said, “that Monsieur Clifford might spare me more time when he brings with him so charming an American.”
“Must—must I go, Valentine?” began Clifford.
“Certainly,” she replied.
