“Oh, yes, of course, how stupid of me!” cried Mrs. Eales, a thought shrilly. “Fetch my purse from the dressing-table, will you? Now let me see. . . . Oh, dear! I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, fumbling in the purse, “but I seem to have run terribly short. Will it do if I give you ten shillings on account and the rest on Monday?”

Florence took the proffered note without comment, but her eyes rested for a moment on the unopened letters before she went on: “Mr. Du Pine was on the telephone just now.”

“Mr. Du Pine!” said Mrs. Eales quickly. “I can’t speak to him.”

“He didn’t want to speak to you. He was just enquiring after Mr. Ballantine. I told him he wasn’t here and then he rang off.”

“I see. Did he say—did he tell you anything about Mr. Ballantine?”

“No. He just rang up to make sure he wasn’t here, he said. He didn’t sound as if he thought he would be, somehow.”

“That will do, Florence,” said her mistress coldly. “Will you take the breakfast things, please?”

Florence sulkily removed the tray. At the door she turned, and said over her shoulder:

“If the Captain calls, am I to let him in?”

“Oh, go away, go away!” cried Mrs. Eales, at the end of her patience. The last man in the world of whom she wished to be reminded at that moment was Captain Eales.

4
THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN

Saturday, November 14th

A little before noon a cab drew up outside a small white villa on the outskirts of Passy, and there set down a thin middle-aged man. He was observed and recognized from a first-floor window by a dishevelled maid, who with a “Tiens!” of annoyance and surprise set down her feather duster and hastened to make herself presentable before admitting him.

“Bonjour, Eléonore,” said John Fanshawe on the threshold, when the door was at length opened to him.

“Monsieur! Mais, que cette arrivée est imprévue!”

“Unexpected, but not unwelcome, I hope,” said Fanshawe in French which a long lack of practice had made somewhat uncertain.

Oh, monsieur was joking! As if he could be unwelcome at any time! And had monsieur had a good journey? And was he well? But she could see for herself that he was well—only thin. Mon Dieu! How he was thin! She had hardly known him at first.

“And mademoiselle?” asked Fanshawe, as soon as he could make any headway through the flood of words. “How is she?”