He was
tall, serious, upright, rich. His face beneath his wide, black hat was
grave and well cared for. The sombre glitter of his eye was grave, his
small dark beard shone in the well-controlled prime of its growth. From
the narrow line of white collar to the narrower thread of French
watchchain--from the lean, long feet to the lean, white hands she took
him in, and braced herself, adjusted herself, to meet his stately
gravity. If there was something of the Mephistopheles in fancy dress
about him, it was corrected by his considerate expression.
"Have you had breakfast?" he began, speaking French with a softly nasal
accent.
"How kind of you to think of it! Yes, thank you, monsieur."
"I have to go to Verdun," he put it to her. "I have business there." It
was as though he expected that she would let him off without difficult
explanations, would exclaim: "There is some mistake! Some other car,
some other driver is intended for your work!"
But she remained silent except for a smile of acknowledgment, and with a
sigh he summoned the lieutenant and went back into the hotel. In a few
minutes the Frenchman came out again. "Monsieur Dellahousse would like
to know if you know the way?" he inquired.
"He doesn't want to take me? Isn't that it?" asked Fanny, smiling but
anxious.
"He is a little doubtful," admitted the lieutenant.
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