“They say that her painting is only a ruse to see monsieur.”

“To see Monsieur Saffren, yes.”

“But, no!” he cried.  “That is not—­”

“Yes, it is,” I assured him calmly.  “As you know, Monsieur Saffren is very, very handsome, and Mademoiselle Elliott, being a painter, is naturally anxious to look at him from time to time.”

“You are sure?” he said wistfully, even plaintively.  “That is not the meaning Jean Ferret put upon it.”

“He was mistaken.”

“It may be, it may be,” he returned, greatly crestfallen, picking up his tray and preparing to go.  “But Jean Ferret was very positive.”

“And I am even more so!”

“Then that malicious maid of Mademoiselle Ward’s was mistaken also,” he sighed, “when she said that now a marriage is to take place between Mademoiselle Ward and Monsieur Ingle—­”

“Proceed,” I bade him.

He moved a few feet nearer the kitchen.  “The malicious woman said to Jean Ferret—­” He paused and coughed.  “It was in reference to those Italian jewels monsieur used to send—­”

“What about them?” I asked ominously.

“The woman says that Mademoiselle Ward—­” he increased the distance between us—­“that now she should give them to Mademoiselle Elliott!  Good night, monsieur!”

His entrance into the kitchen was precipitate.  I sank down again into the wicker chair (from which I had hastily risen) and contemplated the stars.  But the short reverie into which I then fell was interrupted by Mr. Percy, who, sauntering leisurely about the garden, paused to address me.

“You folks thinks you was all to the gud, gittin’ them trunks off, what?”

“You speak in mysterious numbers,” I returned, having no comprehension of his meaning.

“I suppose you don’ know nothin’ about it,” he laughed satirically.  “You didn’ go over to Lisieux ’saft’noon to ship ’em?  Oh, no, not you!”

“I went for a long walk this afternoon, Mr. Percy.  Naturally, I couldn’t have walked so far as Lisieux and back.”

“Luk here, m’friend,” he said sharply—­“I reco’nise ‘at you’re tryin’ t’ play your own hand, but I ast you as man to man:  Do you think you got any chanst t’ git that feller off t’ Paris?”

“Do you think it will rain to-night?” I inquired.

The light of a reflecting lamp which hung on the wall near the archway enabled me to perceive a bitter frown upon his forehead.  “When a gen’leman asts a question as a gen’leman,” he said, his voice expressing a noble pathos, “I can’t see no call for no other gen’leman to go an’ play the smart Aleck and not answer him.”

In simple dignity he turned his back upon me and strolled to the other end of the courtyard, leaving me to the renewal of my reverie.