The hum of a self-starter reached
me faintly, and a moment later there rolled slowly forth a dark-blue
touring-car of luxurious aspect, driven by a chauffeur whose coat and
cap and goggles gave him rather the appearance of a leather brownie, and
bearing in the tonneau Miss Falconer, elaborately coated and veiled.
She was turning to the right, not the left; she would not pass me. I
stood transfixed, watching from my post against the wall. As the car
crept by the old majordomo, he saluted, and she spoke to him, bending
forward for a moment to rest her fingers on his sleeve.
"Be of courage, Marcel, my friend! All will be well if _le bon Dieu_
wills it," I heard her say. Then to the chauffeur she added: "_En avant,
Georges! Vite, a_ Bleau!" The motor snorted as the car gained speed, and
they were gone.
The ancient Marcel, reentering, locked the grille behind him. I was left
alone, more astounded than before. The girl's kind speech to the old
servant, her gentle tones, her womanly gesture, had been bewildering.
Despite all the accusing features her case offered, I should have said
just then, as I watched Miss Esme Falconer, that she was nothing more or
less than a superlatively nice girl.
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