“I happened to see him, on his way south, at Avignon, some days ago.”

“Did he see you?”

“Isn’t that my affair—­and his?”

“By Jove—­you’ve got good cheek, to talk like this to your mistress’s stepson!  But maybe you think you won’t have difficulty in finding a place that pays you better—­what?”

“I couldn’t find one to pay me much worse.”

“Look here, my dear, I’m not out huntin’ for repartee.  I want to have an understanding with you.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Yes, you do, well enough.  You know I like you—­in spite of your impudence.”

“And I dislike you because of yours.  Oh, do go away and leave me, Mr. Stokes.”

“I won’t.  I’ve got a lot to say to you.  I’ve only just begun, but you keep interruptin’ me, and I can’t get ahead.”

“Finish then.”

“Well, what I want to say is this.  I always meant we should stop at Fontainebleau.”

“Oh—­you damaged your stepfather’s car on purpose!  He would be obliged to you.”

“Not quite that.  I intended to get them to have tea here, and while they were moonin’ about I was going to have a chat with you.  I was goin’ to tell you about that card to Charretier, and somethin’ else.  That the duchess asked me where we would stop in Paris, and I told her at the best there is, of course—­Hotel Athenee.  She said she’d wire her friends you’d run away from, that they could find you there; and if Charretier wasn’t at Fontainebleau when we passed through, these people would certainly know where to get at him.  I warned you the other night, didn’t I? that if you wouldn’t be good and confide in me I’d find out what you refused to tell me yourself; and I have, you see.  Clever, aren’t I?”

“You’re the hatefullest man I ever heard of!” I flung at him.

“Oh, I say!  Don’t speak too soon.  You don’t know all yet.  If you don’t want me to, I won’t call on Charretier.  Lady T. and her tuft-huntin’ can go hang!  And you shan’t stop at the Athenee to be copped by the Duchess’s friends, if you don’t like.  That’s what I wanted to see you about.  To tell you it all depends on yourself.”

“How does it depend on myself?” I asked, cautiously.

“All you have to do, to get off scot free is to be a little kind to poor Bertie.  You can begin by givin’ him a kiss, here in the poetic and what-you-may-call-’em forest of Fontainebleau.”

“I wouldn’t kiss you if you were made of gold and diamonds, and I could have you melted down to spend!” I exclaimed.  And as I delivered this ultimatum, I turned to run.  His legs might be longer than mine, but I weighed about one-third as much as he, which was in my favour if I chose to throw dignity to the winds.

As I whisked away from him, he caught me by the dress, and I heard the gathers rip.  I had to stop.  I couldn’t arrive at the hotel without a skirt.

“You’re a cad—­a cad!” I stammered.