"I could have you back in time," he begged. "Do come along, Mrs. Meredith! You're going to spoil my day." "I'm sure Lydia wouldn't be so unkind." Jean had made her appearance as they were speaking. "What is the scheme, Lydia?" "Mr. Stepney wants me to go out in the yacht," said the girl, and Jean smiled. "I'm glad you call it a 'yacht,'" she said dryly. "You're the second person who has so described it. The first was the agent. Take her to-morrow, Marcus." There was a glint of amusement in her eyes, and he felt that she knew what was at the back of his mind. "All right," he said in a tone which suggested that it was anything but all right, and added, "I saw you flying through Nice this morning with that yellow-faced chauffeur of yours, Jean." "Were you up so early?" she asked carelessly. "I wasn't dressed, I was looking out of the window--my room faces the Promenade d'Anglaise. I don't like that fellow." "I shouldn't let him know," said Jean coolly. "He is very sensitive. There are so many fellows that you dislike, too." "I don't think you ought to allow him so much freedom," Marcus Stepney went on. He was not in an amiable frame of mind, and the knowledge that he was annoying the girl encouraged him. "If you give these French chauffeurs an inch they'll take a kilometre." "I suppose they would," said Jean thoughtfully. "How is your poor hand, Marcus?" He growled something under his breath and thrust his hand deep into the pocket of his reefer coat. "It is quite well," he snapped, and went back to Monaco and his solitary boat trip, flaming. "One of these days ..." he muttered, as he tuned up the motor. He did not finish his sentence, but sent the nose of the _Jungle Queen_ at full speed for the open sea. Jean's talk with Mordon that morning had not been wholly satisfactory. She had calmed his suspicions to an extent, but he still harped upon the letter, and she had promised to give it to him that evening. "My dear," she said, "you are too impulsive--too Gallic. I had a terrible scene with father last night. He wants me to break off the engagement; told me what my friends in London would say, and how I should be a social outcast." "And you--you, Jean?" he asked. "I told him that such things did not trouble me," she said, and her lips drooped sadly. "I know I cannot be happy with anybody but you, François, and I am willing to face the sneers of London, even the hatred and scorn of my father, for your sake." He would have seized her hand, though they were in the open road, but she drew away from him. "Be careful, François," she warned him. "Remember that you have a very little time to wait." "I cannot believe my good fortune," he babbled, as he brought the car up the gentle incline into Monte Carlo. He dodged an early morning tram, missing an unsuspecting passenger, who had come round the back of the tram-car, by inches, and set the big Italia up the palm avenue into the town.