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The Frenchman meant no real harm by his rascally scheme, for Cynthia Vanrenen, daughter of a well-known American citizen, was not to be wooed and won in the fashion that commended itself to unscrupulous lovers in by-gone days. Yet his design blended subtlety and daring in a way that was worthy of ancestors who had ruffled it at Versailles with the cavaliers of old France.
He did not gain a great deal by this maneuver, since his next active thought was centered in a species of quest for the particular window among all those storeyed rows through which Cynthia Vanrenen might even then be gazing at the shining ocean. He looked at his watch. Half-past nine. "I am behaving like a blithering idiot," he told himself.
If you are wise you will cut yourself entirely adrift from him, and warn your son to follow your example. I shall deal with Monsieur Marigny have no doubt on that score and if you wish me to forget certain discreditable incidents that have happened since we left London you will respect my earnest request that Miss Vanrenen shall not be told anything about me by you.
Indeed, Miss Vanrenen, I may go so far as to suggest, by letter, that before my father condemns me he should first meet you. Of course, I shall warn him that you are irresistible." "Good-by again," said Cynthia severely. "You can tell me all about it after oh, some time to-day, anyhow." The Green Dragon proved to be most undragonish.
Devar," he said, smiling frankly into her steel-gray eyes. "Did you say half-past nine, Miss Vanrenen?" he asked, turning to snatch one last look at Cynthia. "Yes. Good-night and thank you." She offered her hand to him before them all.
He meant, of course, to make himself known to Vanrenen, and go through the whole adventure from A to Z. It should provide an interesting story, he thought lively as a novel in some of its chapters, and calculated to appeal strongly to the bright intelligence of an American. On his way to the Savoy, he tried to picture to himself just what Cynthia's father would look like.
Moreover, he must now reconsider his schemes. The long telegrams which he had just dispatched to Devar in London and to Peter Vanrenen in Paris might demand supplements. And to think of that accursed chauffeur being a viscount! His gorge rose at that. The thought almost choked him.
One ought to consider the world we live in; Cynthia will be one of its leaders, and it will never do to have people saying that Viscount Medenham became engaged to Cynthia Vanrenen while acting as the lady's chauffeur during a thousand-mile run through the West of England and Wales. Now, what am I to do?" The answer came from a bedroom window that overlooked the veranda. "Mr. Fitzroy!"
The excuse served to cut short her share of the Countess's brilliant conversation, though Mr. Ducrot tried to make himself very agreeable when he heard the name of Vanrenen. Medenham, standing in the hall, suddenly came face to face with Lady Porthcawl, who was endowed with an unerring eye for minute shades of distinction in the evening dress garments of the opposite sex.
Vanrenen planned the motor tour for his daughter, and perfected during Cynthia's brief stay in London. So he appealed for her forbearance on a plea that he imagined was sure to succeed. "I don't wish to conceal from you that Captain Devar and I have fallen out in the past," he said. "But I am genuinely sorry for his mother, who certainly does not know what a rascal he is.
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