she told him. "My husband is in the south of France."
"Always the good cosmopolitan!" he approved. Then turning once more to Noel:
"You also will come to my concert."
"Expects me to say, 'Yes, master!'" thought Noel.
"No, thanks," he answered evenly and casually. "I don't care for concerts."
Petrovitch looked at Connie, working his prominent brows.
"Philistine, eh? No matter, you are one of us. I am staying here. You will do me the honor to dine with me to-morrow night. Good! We have much to say to one another. Perhaps also my friend Silberstein, eh? He is gourmet. He will eat, you will talk to me." He could frown and smile at the same time, Noel observed. "At eight."
"I'll come," said the fascinated Connie.
He bent once more over her hands.
"Au revoir, my dear friend," he said, in his strangely harsh voice. "To-morrow night." Then with an indifferent nod of the head in Noel's direction, he returned to his table.
Connie paid the bill—she always insisted on that—in a sort of trance, with a little excited smile
