Hastings bowed low. She smiled very sweetly, but there was something of malice in the quiet inclination of her small Parisienne head.

“I could have wished,” she said, “that Monsieur Clifford might spare me more time when he brings with him so charming an American.”

“Must⁠—must I go, Valentine?” began Clifford.

“Certainly,” she replied.

Clifford took his leave with very bad grace, wincing, when she added, “And give my dearest love to Cécile!” As he disappeared in the Rue d’Assas, the girl turned as if to go, but then suddenly remembering Hastings, looked at him and shook her head.

“Monsieur Clifford is so perfectly harebrained,” she smiled, “it is embarrassing sometimes. You have heard, of course, all about his success at the Salon?”

He looked puzzled and she noticed it.