He dines with her, but doesn't drive with her to the theatre,
as that would be rather too public for the present, until their
engagement's announced. He adores her, but is inconveniently jealous,
like most Latins. It's practically certain that he's heard your name
mentioned in connection with hers, when she was in London, and as a
Frenchman invariably fails to understand that a man can admire a
beautiful woman without being in love with her, your call at her house
might give Mademoiselle Maxine a _mauvais quart d'heure_."
"I see. But if she sends him away, and comes to my hotel--"
"She'll probably make some excuse about being obliged to go to the
theatre early, and thus get rid of him. She's quite clever enough to
manage that. Then, as your own name won't appear on any hotel list in
the papers next day, the most jealous heart need have no cause for
suspicion. At the same time, if certain persons whom Mademoiselle--and
we, too--have to fear, do find out that she has visited Ivor Dundas, who
has assumed a false name for the pleasure of a private interview with
her, interests of even deeper importance than the most desperate love
affair may still, we'll hope, be guarded by the pretext of your old
friendship.
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