"_Au Rat Mort!_" he cried. "Good!"

They paid the bill and all trooped out. The fair-haired girl caught at Macheson's hand as he pa.s.sed.

"_Au Rat Mort?_" she whispered.

She threw a meaning glance at Ella.

"Monsieur is well guarded," she said softly.

"Malheureus.e.m.e.nt!" he answered, smiling.

Davenant drew him on one side as the girls went for their cloaks.

"I say, old chap," he began, "aren't you trying Ella a bit high? She's not a bad-tempered girl, you know, but I'm afraid there'll be a row soon."

Macheson paused to light a cigarette.

"A row?" he answered. "I don't see why."

"You're a bit catholic in your attentions, you know," Davenant remarked.

"Why not?" Macheson answered. "Ella is nothing to me. No more are the rest of them. I amuse myself--that's all."

Davenant looked as he felt, puzzled.

"Well," he said. "I'm not sure that Ella sees it in that light."

"Why shouldn't she?" Macheson demanded.

"Well, hang it all, you brought her over, didn't you?" Davenant reminded him.

"She came over as my guest," Macheson answered. "That is to say, I pay for her whenever she chooses to come out with us, and I pay or shall pay her hotel bill. Beyond that, I imagine that we are both of us free to amuse ourselves as we please."

"I don't believe Ella looks at it in that light," Davenant said hesitatingly. "You mean to say that there is nothing--er----"

"Of course not," Macheson interrupted.

"Hasn't she----"

"Oh! shut up," Macheson exclaimed. "Here they come."

Ella pa.s.sed her arm through his. Mademoiselle Rosine had told her while she stood on tiptoe and dabbed at her cheeks with a powder-puff, that she was too cold. The Messieurs Anglais were often so difficult. They needed encouragement, so very much encouragement. Then there were more confidences, and Madame Rosine was very much astonished. What sort of a man was this Monsieur Macheson, yet so gallant, so gay! She promised herself that she would watch him.

"We will drive up together, you and I," Ella whispered in his ear, but Macheson only laughed.

"I've hired a motor car for the night," he said. "In you get! I'm going to sit in front with the chauffeur and sing."

"You will do nothing of the sort," Ella declared, almost sharply. "You will come inside with us."

"Anywhere, anyhow," he answered. "To the little h.e.l.l at the top of the hill, Jean, and drive fast," he directed. "Jove! it's two o'clock! Hurry up, Davenant. We shall have no time there at all."

There was barely room for four. Mademoiselle Rosine perched herself daintily on Davenant's knee. Ella tried to draw Macheson into her arms, but he sank on to the floor, and sat with his hands round his knees singing a French music-hall song of the moment. They shouted to him to leave off, but he only sang the louder. Then, in a block, he sprang from the car, seized the whole stock of a pavement flower-seller, and, paying her magnificently, emptied them through the window of the car into the girls' laps, and turning round as suddenly--disappeared.

"He's mad--quite mad," Ella declared, with a sigh. "I don't believe we shall see him again to-night."

Nevertheless, he was on the pavement outside the _Rat Mort_ awaiting them, chaffing the commissionaire. He threw open the door and welcomed them.

"They are turning people away here," he declared. "Heaps of fun going on! All the artistes from the Circus are here, and a party of Spaniards.

Francois has kept our table. Come along."

Ella hung on to him as they climbed the narrow, shabby staircase.

"Say," she pleaded in his ear, "don't you want to be a little nicer to me to-night?"

"Command me," he answered. "I am in a most amenable temper."

"Sit with me instead of wandering round so. You don't want to talk to every pretty girl, do you?"

He laughed.

"Why not? Aren't we all on the same quest? It is the 'camaraderie' of pleasure!"

They reached the bend of the stairs. From above they could hear the music, the rattle of plates, the hum of voices. She leaned towards him.

"Kiss me, please," she whispered.

He stooped down and raised her hand to his lips. She drew it slowly away and looked at him curiously.

"Your lips are cold," she said.

He laughed.

"The night is young," he answered. "See, there is Francois."

They pa.s.sed on. Ella was a little more content. It was the most promising thing he had said to her.

CHAPTER IV

AT THE "DEAD RAT"

Monsieur Francois piloted the little party himself to the corner table which he had reserved for them. He had taken a fancy to this tall young Englishman, whose French, save for a trifle of accent, was as perfect as his own, who spent money with both hands, who was gay as the gayest, and yet who had the air of being little more than a looker-on at the merriment which he did so much to promote.

"We are full to-night, monsieur," he said. "There will be a great crowd.

Yet you see your table waits. Mademoiselle Bolero herself begged for it, but I said always--'No! no! no! It is for monsieur and his friends.'"