Sylvia and Colette, who were becoming uneasy at the conversation in English, now demanded to know what they were talking about.
“What does a sculptor usually talk about?” cried West, with a laugh.
Odile glanced reproachfully at Thorne, her fiancé.
“You are not French, you know, and it is none of your business, this war,” said Odile with much dignity.
Thorne looked meek, but West assumed an air of outraged virtue.
“It seems,” he said to Fallowby, “that a fellow cannot discuss the beauties of Greek sculpture in his mother tongue, without being openly suspected.”
Colette placed her hand over his mouth and turning to Sylvia, murmured, “They are horridly untruthful, these men.”
“I believe the word for ambulance is the same in both languages,” said Marie Guernalec saucily; “Sylvia, don’t trust Monsieur Trent.”
“Jack,” whispered Sylvia, “promise me———”
A knock at the studio door interrupted her.
“Come in!” cried Fallowby, but Trent sprang up, and opening the door, looked out. Then with a hasty excuse to the rest, he stepped into the hall-way and closed the door.
When he returned he was grumbling.
“What is it, Jack?” cried West.
“What is it?” repeated Trent savagely; “I’ll tell you what it is. I have received a dispatch from the American Minister to go at
