“Can’t tell,” he muttered. “Can’t tell. Seemed bucked up a bit, of course. Took notice, recognised him, and that’s something. But you can’t tell....” “She’ll live,” I said. “I’m glad you’re so certain,” snapped the captain of men. “I’m so little certain that I put that young man on his honour to look round again to-morrow afternoon.” “On his honour!” I said. “On his honour?” “What’s the matter with his honour? Looks all right to me....” “But he’s going South in the morning!” “He mustn’t go!” snapped Masters. “That’ll be your job. We must give her one more chance ... one more _piqure_. It’s essential that he shouldn’t go to-morrow. You must prevent him.” “I’ll try,” I said “But....” “But surely he won’t _want_ to go!” “Oh, _he_ won’t want to go....” Masters stared at me thoughtfully. “Um,” he said. “Um.” “Of course,” I said, “you never know....” “Well,” said Masters, “now she’s seen him once she’ll expect to see him again. It’s only natural.” “Of course,” I said. “Naturally....” Smoothly ran the Renault with the scarlet wheels. The black lion found in us no little Citroën, cowered before us, slunk back into the jungle of nameless boulevards. Montparnasse showed lights to hold us, faces in cafés, singing groups of young men, little flashing women with lots of hair like dyed haloes. Artists. Swiftly we fled through the darkness, the stillness, the deep shadows of the phantom fortress of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, away we went from the _ancien régime_, the _haute noblesse_, across the river to the _nouveau régime_, the _noblesse_, down the stately slope of the Avenue Hoche into the sweet valley of the Parc Monceau, where lived the dashing Mrs. Conrad Masters, with bridge, dancing, Parisian-Americans.... “You can’t,” that man muttered, “expect her to be reasonable....” “No,” I said, “I suppose not....” “Nice!” snapped Masters “Good God, ‘nice’!” CHAPTER SEVEN: FOR VENICE! I Fat white clouds hurried over the pale blue roof of the rue de la Paix. Spring, the first day before the first day of spring, the day that is not spring but is a voice of spring crying in the wilderness of the chilly heavens: “Here is spring, and lo! these are the clouds of winter fleeing before her, white as polar bears, and as stupid. Enjoy, enjoy _le printemps_!” Anxious the fat white clouds seemed, most anxious, hurrying from the vanities of the rue de la Paix towards the Cathedral of Our Lady, that they might pray, the poor clouds who know not that the pagan gods are dead, the poor clouds, who love the winter, against the return of Persephone from the arms of Plutus. The stormy brittle sunlight, eager to play with the pearls and diamonds of Van Cleef, Lacloche and Cartier, aye, and of Tecla also, chided away the fat white clouds, and now the sun would play with one window of the rue de la Paix, now with another, mortifying one, teasing another, but all in a very handsome way.