I found my tongue.
“Was this what you wanted me for?” I asked.
“Of course,” said the duchess, speaking French again.
“But you can’t come with me!” I cried in unfeigned horror.
The duchess looked up; she fixed her eyes on me for a moment; her eyes grew round, her brows lifted. Then her lips curved: she blushed very red; and she burst into the merriest fit of laughter.
“Oh, dear!” laughed the duchess. “Oh, what fun, Mr. Aycon!”
“It seems to me rather a serious matter,” I ventured to observe. “Leaving out all question of—of what’s correct, you know” (I became very apologetic at this point), “it’s just a little risky, isn’t it?”
Jean evidently thought so; he nodded solemnly over his cheroot.
The duchess still laughed; indeed, she was wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.
“What an opinion to have of me!” she gasped at last. “I’m not coming with you, Mr. Aycon.”
I dare say my face showed relief: I don’t know that I need be ashamed of that. My change of expression, however, set the duchess a-laughing again.
“I never saw a man look so glad,” said she gayly. Yet somewhere, lurking in the recesses of her tone—or was it of her eyes?—there was a little reproach, a little challenge. And sud-
