‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Afterwards we started for déjeuner in a motor. You denied it at the time—but unfortunately I have proof. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep.
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