It was Hugh's firm conviction that Destiny and not Jane,
had flung Rosemary in front of his motor; but Destiny could not be
rewarded and Jane could.
Rosemary would be satisfied with nothing less than a formal
presentation; and that the ceremony might be gone through without delay,
the car was directed towards the Condamine. As they neared the street of
the Hotel Pension Beau Soleil, a cab came jingling round the corner.
It was occupied by two ladies who sat half buried in travelling bags,
rugs, baskets, and shawl straps, such as women who are not of the Anglo
Saxon races love. A tiny motorphobe in the shape of a black Pomeranian
yapped viciously at the automobile as the vehicles passed each other;
and though the ladies--one stout, the other slim--were thickly veiled,
Rosemary cried out, "Oh, it's the Comtesse and Mademoiselle. They must
be going away."
Hugh said nothing, but his silence was eloquent to Evelyn, who knew now
the whole story of the girl with the soft eyes. Both were pleased that
this was the last of her; but neither quite knew Mademoiselle de
Lavalette.
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