he'd called my bluff, and I didn't like to cheapen myself before the concierges and chauffeurs. But I had to make good, so I turned in under the marquise to let him out. Instead of trying to kiss me he got down, walked round to my side—and kissed my hand, or my glove. Then he went in and went to bed."
"And the next day?" I asked.
Rosalie's colour was like a big crimson dahlia.
"He had less sense when he was sober than when he was drunk," she answered, and laughed; "but he's safely on the way to his fiancée in Newport now, so it's all right. He'll always think of the little French chauffeuse who gave him such good advice, and asked no more than what was indicated on the clock, as those boys called it."
Rosalie stopped talking and looked thoughtful. I was a bit thoughtful myself.
"Well," said I, "suppose you look at the clock and tell me what time it is in louis. It's time that you were getting back to Sœur Anne Marie—and that I was getting on the job."
Rosalie looked at me with her queer little smile.
"You engaged me for the afternoon," said she. "I'm no quitter, as they say in Wichita."
"That's plain enough," I answered, "but I am. How much do I owe you?"
"A little straight talk," she answered.
"You're right there," I answered, "and you shall have it." Perhaps it was the strain of the last week or two, or perhaps it was the knowledge that things were coming to a focus. Maybe Rosalie had something to do with it. Anyway, said I:
