Under other circumstances Duchemin, not at all hoodwinked by this too
obvious stratagem, would have taken mean pleasure in looking blank and
begging monsieur to interpret himself in French. But, with or without
cunning, Phinuit's question was well-timed: Eve de Montalais was at
that moment entering the drawing-room with Madame la Comtesse de
Lorgnes, and she knew very well that Duchemin's English was quite as
good as his French.

"At the Café de l'Univers, this afternoon," he replied frankly.

"I remember. You drove away, just before the storm broke, in a
ramshackle rig that must have come out of the Ark."

"To come here, Mr. Phinuit."

"Funny," said Phinuit, with hesitation, "your being there, and then our
turning up here."

Duchemin thought he knew what was on the other's mind. "I was immensely
entertained--do you mind my saying so?--to hear the way your chauffeur
talked to you, monsieur. Tell me: Is it the custom in your country--?"

"Oh, Jules!" said Phinuit, and laughed. "Jules is my younger brother.
When he was demobilised his job was gone, back home, and I wished him
on Mr. Monk as a chauffeur. We're always kidding each other like that."

Now what could be more reasonable? Duchemin wondered, and concluded
that, if anything, it would be the truth. But he did not pretend to
himself that he wasn't, quite illogically and with no provocation
whatsoever, most vilely prejudiced against the lot of them.