He seemed to bite his tongue and I observed that Mills’ eyes seemed to have grown wider than I had ever seen them before.  In that tranquil face it was a great play of feature.  “An intimacy,” began Mr. Blunt, with an extremely refined grimness of tone, “an intimacy with the heiress of Mr. Allegre on the part of . . . on my part, well, it isn’t exactly . . . it’s open . . . well, I leave it to you, what does it look like?”

“Is there anybody looking on?” Mills let fall, gently, through his kindly lips.

“Not actually, perhaps, at this moment.  But I don’t need to tell a man of the world, like you, that such things cannot remain unseen.  And that they are, well, compromising, because of the mere fact of the fortune.”

Mills got on his feet, looked for his jacket and after getting into it made himself heard while he looked for his hat.

“Whereas the woman herself is, so to speak, priceless.”

Mr. Blunt muttered the word “Obviously.”

By then we were all on our feet.  The iron stove glowed no longer and the lamp, surrounded by empty bottles and empty glasses, had grown dimmer.

I know that I had a great shiver on getting away from the cushions of the divan.

“We will meet again in a few hours,” said Mr. Blunt.

“Don’t forget to come,” he said, addressing me.  “Oh, yes, do.  Have no scruples.  I am authorized to make invitations.”

He must have noticed my shyness, my surprise, my embarrassment.  And indeed I didn’t know what to say.

“I assure you there isn’t anything incorrect in your coming,” he insisted, with the greatest civility.  “You will be introduced by two good friends, Mills and myself.  Surely you are not afraid of a very charming woman. . . .”

I was not afraid, but my head swam a little and I only looked at him mutely.

“Lunch precisely at midday.  Mills will bring you along.  I am sorry you two are going.  I shall throw myself on the bed for an hour or two, but I am sure I won’t sleep.”

He accompanied us along the passage into the black-and-white hall, where the low gas flame glimmered forlornly.  When he opened the front door the cold blast of the mistral rushing down the street of the Consuls made me shiver to the very marrow of my bones.

Mills and I exchanged but a few words as we walked down towards the centre of the town.  In the chill tempestuous dawn he strolled along musingly, disregarding the discomfort of the cold, the depressing influence of the hour, the desolation of the empty streets in which the dry dust rose in whirls in front of us, behind us, flew upon us from the side streets.  The masks had gone home and our footsteps echoed on the flagstones with unequal sound as of men without purpose, without hope.

“I suppose you will come,” said Mills suddenly.

“I really don’t know,” I said.

“Don’t you?  Well, remember I am not trying to persuade you; but I am staying at the Hotel de Louvre and I shall leave there at a quarter to twelve for that lunch.  At a quarter to twelve, not a minute later.  I suppose you can sleep?”