So Hanaud rattled on, striving to bring back some laughter to that wan face; and suddenly she did laugh and laid a small hand upon his big paw.
“Very well,” she said, and she got up unsteadily on to her feet. “But you talk of a friend and again of a friend. Except you two I have no friends in Bordeaux.”
“We shall see.”
Hanaud went to the door and opened it and beckoned, and Bryce Carter entered the room. At the sight of him Joyce uttered a cry of astonishment.
“You?” She plumped down in her chair again and stared at him. “But when did you come?”
“This evening,” said Bryce Carter. “There was a word about you last night in a London paper.”
“And you left at once?”
“Of course. I came at once.”
“Oh!”
Joyce ran a grimy finger backwards and forwards along the tablecloth and her lips twitched and melted into a slow smile.
“That was terribly nice of you,” she said.
Hanaud glanced at Mr. Ricardo and threw up his hands in despair. There was no need for him to blow upon his fingers now. He of the burning letters—there he stood as unmoved as a pillar in a desert, with his “Of course,” and his “I came at once,” like a doctor. And there she sat looking at her little dirty finger and saying politely “How terribly nice of you!” What a people—Goddam!
“Well, we go, Mr. Ricardo and I,” he said, making his announcement as dramatic as possible. But it fell just as flat as his introduction of Bryce Carter. Neither of the young people asked whither he and Mr. Ricardo were going, or took the most fleeting interest in their movements. Bryce Carter stared at Joyce; Joyce stared at the tablecloth. Hanaud tried again. He smiled confidently at Mr. Ricardo as one who knew an infallible magic to attract a girl’s attention.
“We go to bring back your clothes to you, mademoiselle,” he said.
Certainly the remark had an effect, but not the effect which he expected. He awaited enthusiasm, and a show of gratitude. All that happened was that Joyce raised her eyes shyly to Bryce Carter’s face and said with a little bubble of laughter:
“He says that I look like a chimney-sweep’s boy.”
Bryce Carter looked at as much as he could see of her very seriously. Then he replied:
“I have never seen a chimney-sweep’s boy, but I should think that he’s right.”
Hanaud was defeated. He rushed from the room, and Mr. Ricardo found him leaning against the wall of the passage, incredulity upon his face, his arms helplessly gesticulating.
“What a people!” he exclaimed.
Mr. Ricardo on the other hand had a different view. Discretion and self-control never failed to touch a responsive chord in his heart.
“It is not our habit to make a public exhibition of our emotions even under the most seductive circumstances,” he said primly.
“I was wrong about that young man,” Hanaud declared gloomily. “He has not the temperament. He will not make money in the City.”
But a little cry rang out behind the closed door. Bryce Carter’s voice, passionate and low, followed swift upon it. “Joyce! Joyce!”
Hanaud turned in a flash and opened the door. For the fraction of a second he stood, he in his turn like a pillar of stone. He saw Bryce Carter standing by the table and in his clasp the chimney-sweep’s boy, her arms tightly locked about his neck, her face buried in his coat. Hanaud softly closed the door.
“He has. He will,” he said, sublimely admitting an error of judgment. “Let us go!”
This time the car slipped along the Rue Fondaudège and out by the route du Médoc. The clocks of the town were striking ten whilst it still ran between the houses. Immediately afterwards the interminable street fell away behind with an abruptness which was startling, and the car shot into the darkness of the open country. But in front of the strong headlights the road lay brilliant as a ribbon of snow and the trees which bordered it continually met to make an impenetrable forest and continually opened to let the travellers through. Every now and then they jolted over cobbles between ghostly white houses, and left another village behind them; every now and then, too, the lighted windows of a bar fought with their lights for the illumination of the road, and vanished behind them. Hanaud sat very silent in the darkness of the limousine, and Mr. Ricardo was at pains not to interrupt his reflections. No doubt the great man was planning and planning and planning. Already a rare light or two showed that they were approaching Pauillac. The adventures of the night were nearing their climax. Suddenly Hanaud spoke.
“I have been thinking, my friend.”
“I was careful not to break in upon your thoughts.”
“I have been looking back upon all that was said and done this evening.”
“It is very natural that you should.”
“And one thing puzzles me.”
“Only one thing?” Mr. Ricardo asked enviously.
“Only one thing, my friend,” Hanaud returned. “But it is one which you shall explain to me.”
A series of little movements in the other corner of the carriage suggested that Mr. Ricardo was settling his collar, squaring his shoulders, pulling down his cuffs and generally trimming himself up to fit the occasion.
“I shall do my best. Speak, Hanaud!”
Hanaud accordingly delivered himself of
