“But naturally...”

“How do you get that way?  Do you want us all to get soaked to our skins?”

“My dear Jules!” Mr. Phinuit returned with a winning smile—­“I don’t give a tupenny damn if we do.”  With that he went to join his company; while Jules, once the other’s back was turned, permitted himself, for the sake of his own respect and the effect upon the assembled audience, the luxury of a shrug that outrivalled words in expression of his personal opinion of the madness that contemplated further travel on such a night as this promised to be.

Then, like the well-trained servant that he was not, he meshed gears silently and swung the car away to seek shelter, taking with him the sympathy as well as the wonder of the one witness of this bit of by-play who had been able to understand the tongue in which it was couched; and who, knowing too well what rain in those hills could mean, was beginning to regret that his invitation to the chateau had not been for another night.

As for the somewhat unusual tone of the passage to which he had just listened, his nimble wits could invent half a dozen plausible explanations.  It was quite possible, indeed when one judged Mr. Phinuit by his sobriety in contrast with the gaiety of the others it seemed quite plausible, that he was equally with Jules a paid employee of those ostensible nouveaux riches:  and that the two, the chauffeur and the courier (or whatever Mr. Phinuit was in his subordinate social rating) were accustomed to amuse themselves by indulging in reciprocal abuse.

But what Duchemin could by no means fathom was the reason why Phinuit should choose, and how he should rule the choice of his party, in the face of such threatening weather, to stop in Nant for an early dinner—­with Millau only an hour away and the chances fair that before the storm broke the automobile would reach the latter city with its superior hotel and restaurant accommodations.

But it was after all none of the business of Andre Duchemin.  He lighted another cigarette, observing the group of strangers in Nant with an open inquisitiveness wholly Gallic, therefore inconspicuous.  The entire clientele of the Cafe de l’Univers was doing the same; Mr. Phinuit’s party was the focal point of between twenty and thirty pair of staring eyes, and was enduring this with much equanimity.

Mr. Phinuit was conferring earnestly over the menu with madame la proprietaire.  The others were ordering aperitifs of a waiter.  Through the clatter of tongues that filled the cafe one caught the phrase “veeskysoda” uttered by the monsieur in tweeds.  Then the tall man consulted the beautiful lady as to her preference, and Duchemin caught the words “madame la comtesse” spoken in the rasping nasal drawl of an American.

Evidently a person of rich humour, the speaker:  “madame la comtesse” was abruptly convulsed with laughter; the chubby gentleman roared; Mr. Phinuit looked up from the carte with an enquiring, receptive smile; the waiter grinned broadly.  But the cause of all this merriment wore only an expression of slightly pained bewilderment on his death-mask of a face.