Miss Granger followed the direction of his eyes.

"Why," she said, "we're used to these differences of opinion. Besides,
it's only Monsieur Radet; he's forever at war with someone or other."

"He ought to be shown the door," the Duc grumbled.

"Oh, as for that," she answered, "we couldn't. My aunt would be
desolated by such a necessity. He is very influential in certain
quarters. My aunt wants to catch him for the--He's going to write an
article."

"He writes too many articles," the Duc said, with heavy displeasure.

"Oh, he has written _one_ too many," she answered, "but that can be
traversed...."

"But no one believes," the Duc objected ... Radet's voice intermittently
broke in upon his _sotto-voce,_ coming to our ears in gusts.

"Haven't I seen you ... and then ... and you offer me the cross ... to
bribe me to silence ... me...."

In the general turning of faces toward the window in which stood Radet
and the other, mine turned too. Radet was a cadaverous, weatherworn,
passion-worn individual, badger-grey, and worked up into a grotesquely
attitudinised fury of injured self-esteem. The other was a
denationalised, shifty-eyed, sallow, grey-bearded governor of one of the
provinces of the Système Groënlandais; had a closely barbered head, a
bull neck, and a great belly. He cast furtive glances round him,