"I think the only two Frenchmen I have met are the
Marquis and that languid young man with the green tie, the Vicomte de
Bergillac, wasn't it?"
The Marquise watched her charge closely.
"Well," she said, "he is _comme il faut_, is he not? You find him more
elegant, more chic than your Englishmen, eh?"
Phyllis shook her head regretfully.
"To me," she admitted, "he seemed like an exceedingly precocious spoilt
child!"
"He is twenty-three," the Marquise declared.
Phyllis laughed softly.
"Well," she said, "I do not think that I shall amend my ideals for the
sake of the Vicomte de Bergillac!"
The Marquise looked at her doubtfully.
"Tell me, child," she said, "you mean, then, that of the two--your
English Sir George Duncombe and Henri--you would prefer Sir George?"
Phyllis looked at her with twinkling eyes.
"You would really like to know?" she asked.
"Yes!"
"Sir George Duncombe--infinitely!"
The Marquise seemed to have recovered her good spirits.
"Come, little one," she said, "you lose color in the house. I will take
you for a drive!"
* * * * *
Andrew, conscious that he was being followed, sat down outside a cafe on
his way homewards, and bade his guide leave him for a little time.
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