'I've gotten a letter or so
fra' France.'
'For me?' cried Vandeloup, eagerly, holding out his hands.
'An' for who else would it be?' grumbled Archie, giving the letter
to him--a thin, foreign looking envelope with the Parisian post mark
on it; 'did ye think it was for that black-avised freend o' yours?'
'Hardly!' returned Vandeloup, glancing at the letter with
satisfaction, and putting it in his pocket. 'Pierre couldn't write
himself, and I doubt very much if he had any friends who could--not
that I knew his friends,' he said, hastily catching sight of
McIntosh's severe face bent inquiringly on him, 'but like always
draws to like.'
Archie's only answer to this was a grunt.
'Are ye no gangin' tae read yon?' he asked sourly.
'Not at present,' replied Vandeloup, blowing a thin wreath of blue
smoke, 'by-and-bye will do. Scandal and oysters should both be fresh
to be enjoyable, but letters--ah, bah,' with a shrug, 'they can
wait. Come, tell me the news; anything going on?'
'Weel,' said McIntosh, with great gusto, deliberately flicking a fly
off the horse's back with a whip, 'she's ta'en the bit intil her
mouth and gane wrang, as I said she would.'
'To what special "she" are you alluding to?' asked Vandeloup, lazily
smoothing his moustache; 'so many of them go wrong, you see, one
likes to be particular. The lady's name is--?'
'Katherine Marchurst, no less,' burst forth Archie, in triumph;
'she's rin awa' to be a play-actor.
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