‘Eh bien?’ She thrust again, from the same place. She put her head out of the window. " The Wastrel laughed. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. “I do. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice.
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