There come times in every one's life when explanations, even if one
might give them, are useless. And Sir Paul Verdayne realized that fact
to its fullest when he faced the quasi Countess in the Casino
vestibule.
What unhappy inspiration had caused her to dress herself in a manner
almost identical with that in which Mademoiselle Vseslavitch had
appeared at Lucerne? Mentally, Paul roundly damned a score of times
the imitative instinct of the sex. He could not forgive himself for
having mistaken a person of the Comtesse's stamp for the lady whom he
had sought.
But there the Comtesse stood. And Paul was conscious that in the
glance she bent on him there was more than amazement at his Quixotic
replenishing of her vanished fortunes. In the excitement of the losing
play, she had no thought of the motive which might have prompted
Paul's act. Now that it was done, she had instantly decided, after the
manner of her kind, that it was a tremendous bid for her favour. And
the unconcern with which such a sum had been placed at her disposal
appealed to just such a temperament as hers.
The Comtesse de Boistelle was not one to place too low a value upon
her own attractiveness. The attentions lavished on her by her porcine
American admirer had lacked the artistic touch of this _coup_ of the
English nobleman, and she was willing to capitulate on the spot in
favour of the latter.
All this--and more--Paul read in the warm, admiring glance of the
Comtesse which met his astonished gaze. The horrible futility of any
attempt at explanation struck a chill to his heart, and started the
perspiration on his forehead. Flight, ignominious flight, seemed the
only escape, and yet at this, the sturdy British spirit of Sir Paul
rebelled. A flash of inspiration--a memory from his school-days, came
to mind, as he groped for a plan, in the line from Virgil, "In the
middle way lies safety."
With a bow whose courtesy was irreproachable, Paul spoke first:
"Permit me to send you to your hotel, fair partner of a losing
venture." He smiled grimly at the unconscious truth in his chance
phrase. "To-morrow may give me the great pleasure of a further
acquaintance--and under less depressing circumstances."
Then, before the Comtesse could quite marshal her vocabulary to reply
in a fitting manner, Paul had bowed her through the great entrance;
the door of the carriage shut, and she was driven away.
* * * * *
The uncomfortable sense of having made a thorough-going ass of himself
was not conducive to sound slumber on the part of Sir Paul that night.
Nor did it aid in preserving his temper during the unpleasant scene
the following morning when Schwartzberger, still furious with rage,
called at the _hôtel._
It was a relief, however, to Paul to have some object on which to vent
his pent-up feelings, and if the pork-packer did not quite understand
all that he said, Paul at least left no mistake in Schwartzberger's
mind as to the total lack of grounds for the latter's jealousy, and
filled him with a proper awe of the wrath of an Englishman once
aroused.
Paul realized that by the time she met Schwartzberger, if not before,
the Comtesse would discover the veiled emphasis on mere probability in
his parting suggestion as to any future meeting. So he was not
surprised to see the tonneau of the big green motor car with its
customary occupants whirling past him as he drove to the station that
afternoon.
Well! the unbelievable _faux pas_ which he had committed--thanks to
chance and his own imbecility--had turned him from his search. He no
longer had the heart to linger about Nice peering into strange ladies'
faces. The Lord only knew what blunder he would make next if he
continued to look for her there!