A foreign-looking servant opened the door to Evie Colebrook.
"Mr. Morelle is out, Mademoiselle, is he expecting you?"
She was in a flutter, ready to fly on the least excuse. "Yes--but I
will come back again."
François opened the door wide. "If Mademoiselle will wait a
little--perhaps Mr. Morelle will return very soon."
François was an ugly, bullet-headed little man, and his name was a
war creation. It was in fact "Otto", and he was a German Swiss.
She came timidly into the big room and was impressed by the solid
luxury of it. She would not sit, preferring to walk about, delighted
with the opportunity of making so leisurely an inspection of a room
hallowed by such associations. So this was where Ronnie worked so
hard. She laid her hand affectionately upon the big black table.
François watched her a little sadly. He had a sister of her age and,
in his eyes at least, as pretty. Moreover, François had grown tired
of his employer. Men servants were in demand and he would have no
difficulty in finding another job. Except for this: Ronald paid
extraordinarily good wages.
He saw her pick up a framed photograph. "This is Mr. Morelle's
portrait, isn't it? I don't like it."
Evie felt on terms with the man. It seemed natural that she should.
She had wondered if François would be at Palermo, too.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, that is his portrait."
Evie frowned critically at the picture. "It is not half good looking
enough."
"That is possible, Mademoiselle," said François, without enthusiasm.
He had never done such a thing before. He marveled at his own
temerity, even now.
"Mademoiselle, you will not be angry if I say somethings?" he asked,
and as he grew more and more agitated, his English took a quainter
turn.