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“I suppose–well, I suppose because—-“

“Well?”

“You’re a little bit–but I don’t think I ought to talk about it.”

“Jealous, you were going to say.”

“Was I?”

“And that shows you know what I mean.”

“Well, by now I suppose I do. I can’t help your doing it or I would.”

Charlie moved closer, and leaning forward till his face was only a yard from hers, while his hand, sliding along the back of the seat, almost touched her, said in a low voice, “Are you sure you would?”

Dora’s answer was a laugh–a laugh with a hint of nervousness in it. Perhaps she knew what was in it, for she looked away towards the river.

“Dolly,” he whispered, “shall I go back to Cannes? Shall I?”

Perhaps the audacity of this per saltum advance from the distance of Miss ‘Bellairs’ to the ineffable assumption involved in ‘Dolly’ made the subject of it dumb.

“I will, if you ask me,” he said, us she, was silent for a space.

Then with profile towards him and eyes away, she murmured,

“What would Miss Travers say if you turned back now?”

The mention of Mary did not on this occasion evoke any unseemly words. On the contrary, Charlie smiled. He glanced at his companion. He glanced behind him and round him. Then, drilling his deep design into the semblance of an uncontrollable impulse, he seized Dora’s hand in his and, before she could stir, kissed her cheek.

She leapt to her feet.

“How dare you?” she cried.

“How could I help it?”

“I’ll never speak to you again. No gentleman would have–oh, I do hope you’re ashamed of yourself!”

Her words evidently struck home. With an air of contrition he sank on the seat.

“I’m a beast,” he said ruefully. “You’re quite right, Miss Bellairs. Don’t have anything more to say to me. I wish I was–I wish I had some–some self-control–and self-respect, you know. If I were a fellow like Ashforth now, I should never have done that! Of course you can’t forgive me,” and, in his extremity of remorse, he buried his face in his hands.

Dora stood beside him. She made one step as if to leave him; a glance at him brought her back, and she looked down at him for a minute. Presently a troubled doubtful little smile appeared on her face; when she realized it was there, she promptly banished it. Alas! It was too late. The rascal had been peeping through his fingers, and, with a ringing laugh, he sprang to his feet, caught both her hands, and cried, “Shocking, wasn’t it? Awful?”

“Let me go, Mr. Ellerton.”

“Must I?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Why? Why, when you—-?”

“Sir Roger’s coming. Look behind you.”

“Oh, the deuce!”

An instant later they were sitting demurely at opposite ends of the seat, inspecting Villeneuve with interest.

In another moment Deane stood before them, puffing a cigarette, and wearing an expression of amiability tempered by boredom.

“Wonderful old place, isn’t it, Deane?” asked Charlie.

“Such a view, Sir Roger!” cried Dora, in almost breathless enthusiasm.

“You certainly,” assented Deane, “do see some wonderful sights on this Promenade. I’m glad I came up. The air’s given you quite a color, Miss Dora.”

“It’s tea-time,” declared Dora suddenly. “Take me down with you, Sir Roger. Mr. Ellerton, go and tell the others we’re going home to tea.”

Charlie started off, and Sir Roger strolled along by Miss Bellairs’s side. Presently he said:

“Still anxious to get to Paris?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” she asked quickly.

“I thought perhaps the charms of Avignon would have decided you to linger. Haven’t you been tempted?”

Dora glanced at him, but his face betrayed no secondary meaning.

“Tempted? Oh, perhaps,” she answered, with the same nervous little laugh, “but not quite led astray. I’m going on.”

CHAPTER VIII

MR. AND MRS. ASHFORTH (1)

All that evening Miss Bellairs was not observed–and Deane watched her very closely–to address a word to Charlie Ellerton; even ‘good-night’ was avoided by a premature disappearance and unexpected failure to return. Perhaps it was part of the same policy of seclusion which made her persuade Lady Deane to travel to Paris with her in one compartment and relegate the men to another–a proposal which the banished accepted by an enthusiastic majority of two to one. The General foresaw an infinity of quiet naps and Deane uninterrupted smoking; Charlie alone chafed against the necessary interruption of his bold campaign, but, in face of Dora’s calm coldness of aspect, he did not dare to lift up his voice.