He laughed at her. "_Mais vraiment!_ How many have you known?"
She considered for a moment, and finally decided that the question did
not require an answer.
Saltash took the wheel and spun the little car round with considerable
dexterity. "Yes, a genius!" he said. "One of the most wonderful of the
age. His work is amazing--scarcely human. He paints too. All Paris raves
over his work--with reason. His picture, 'The Victim'--" he looked at her
suddenly--"What is the matter, _cherie_? Is the sun too strong for you?"
Toby's hand was shielding her eyes. Her lips were trembling. "Don't
wait!" she murmured. "Don't wait! Let's get away! I am all right--just a
little giddy, that's all."
He took her at her word, and sent the car swiftly forward. They passed
out into the crowded thoroughfare, and in a moment or two Toby leaned
back, gazing before her with a white, set face.
Saltash asked no question. He did not even look at her, concentrating all
his attention upon the task of extricating himself as swiftly as possible
from the crush of vehicles around them.
It was a day of perfect autumn, and Paris lay basking in sunshine; but
Saltash was a rapid traveller at all times, and it was not long before
Paris was left behind.
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