The ladies of the party sniffed audibly, and raised their somewhat moth-eaten eyebrows at each other in virtuous disapproval of a young female who provoked such remarks from strangers.  The valet, who had the air of being engaged to the maid with the nose, confined himself to a non-committal grin, but the second and third chauffeurs loyally supported their leader. “Vous avez raison,” they responded, laughing and showing quantities of white teeth.  Then they followed up their compliment by begging that mademoiselle would sit down, and allow her health to be drunk—­with that of the other ladies.

“Yes, sit down by me,” said Number One, indicating a chair.  “This is the Queen’s throne.”

“By me,” said Number Two.  “I’ll cut up your meat for you.”

“By me,” said Number Three.  “I’ll give you my share of pudding.”

By this time I was red to the ears, not knowing whether it were wiser for a lady’s-maid to run away, or to take the rough chaff good-humouredly, and make the best of it.  I fluttered, undecided, never thinking of the old adage concerning the woman who hesitates.

In an instant, it was forcibly recalled to my mind, for Number One chauffeur, smelling strongly of the good red wine of Provence, came forward and offered me his arm.

This was too much.

“Please don’t!” I stammered, in my confusion speaking English.

“Ah, Mademoiselle est Anglaise!” the two others exclaimed, “Vive l’entente cordiale! We are Frenchmen.  You are Italian.  She belongs to our side.”

“Let her choose,” said the handsome Italian, pointing his moustache and doing such execution upon me with his splendid eyes, that if they’d been Maxim guns I should have fallen riddled with bullets.

“I’ll sit by nobody,” I managed to answer, this time in French.  “Please take your seats.  I will have a chair at the other end of the table.”

“You see, mademoiselle is too polite to choose between us.  She’s afraid of a duel,” laughed good-looking Number One.  “I tell you what we must do.  We’ll draw lots for her.  Three pellets of bread.  The biggest wins.”

“Beg your pardon, monsieur,” remarked Mr. Dane, whom I hadn’t seen as he opened the door, “mademoiselle is of my party.  She is waiting for me.”

His voice was perfectly calm, even polite, but as I whirled round and looked at him, fearing a scene, I saw that his eyes were rather dangerous.  He looked like a dog who says, as plainly as a dog can speak, “I’m a good fellow, and I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.  But put that bone down, or I bite.”

The Italian dropped the bone (I don’t mind the simile) not because he was afraid, I think, but because Mr. John Dane’s chin was much squarer and firmer than his; and because such sense of justice as he had told him that the newcomer was within his rights.

“And I beg mademoiselle’s pardon,” he replied with a bow and a flourish.