While Breitmann lingered near Laura, offering what signs of admiration he dared, and while the admiral chatted to his country neighbors who were gathered round the tea-table, Fitzgerald and M. Ferraud were braced against the terrace wall, a few yards farther on, and exchanged views on various peoples.

“America is a wonderful country,” said M. Ferraud, when they had exhausted half a dozen topics.  He spread out his hands, Frenchman-wise.

“So it is.”  Fitzgerald threw away his cigarette.

“And how foolish England was over a pound of tea.”

“Something like that.”

“But see what she lost!” with a second gesture.

“In one way it would not have mattered.  She would patronize us as she still does.”

“Do you not resent it, this patronizing attitude?”

“Oh, no—­we are very proud to be patronized by England,” cynically.  “It’s a fine thing to have a lord tell you that you wear your clothes jolly well.”

“I wonder if you are serious or jesting.”

“I am very serious at this moment,” said Fitzgerald quietly catching the other by the wrist and turning the palm.

M. Ferraud looked into his face with an astonishment on his own, most genuine.  But he did not struggle.  “Why do you do that?”

“I am curious, Mr. Ferraud, when I see a hand like this.  Would you mind letting me see the other?”

“Not in the least.”  M. Ferraud offered the other hand.

Fitzgerald let go.  “What was your object?”

“Mon dieu! what object?”

Fitzgerald lowered his voice.  “What was your object in digging holes in yonder chimney?  Did you know what was there?  And what do you propose to do now?”

M. Ferraud coolly, took off his spectacles and polished the lenses.  It needed but a moment to adjust them.  “What are you talking about?”

“You are really M. Ferraud?” said the young man coldly.

The Frenchman produced a wallet and took out a letter.  It was written by the president of France, introducing M. Ferraud to the ambassador at Washington.  Next, there was a passport, and far more important than either of these was the Legion of Honor.  “Yes, I am Anatole Ferraud.”

“That is all I desire to know.”

“Shall we return to the ladies?” asked M. Ferraud, restoring his treasures.

“Since there is nothing more to be said at present.  It seems strange to me that foreign politics should find its way here.”

“Politics?  I am only a butterfly hunter.”

“There are varieties.  But you are the man.  I shall find out!”

“Possibly,” returned M. Ferraud thinking hard.

“I give you fair warning that if anything is missing—­”

“Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!”

“I shall know where to look for it,” with a smile which had no humor in it.

“Why not denounce me now?”

“Would it serve your purpose?”