Windebank looked from table to table, as if in search of something.
His eye, presently, rested on one, at which an elderly matron was
supping with a parson, presumably her husband.
"Good luck!" Windebank murmured, adding to the girl, "This way."
Mavis followed him up the hall to the table next the one where the
elderly couple were sitting.
"This is about our mark," he said.
"Why specially here?" she asked.
"Those elderly geesers are a sort of chaperone for unprotected
innocence; a parson and all that," he remarked.
She could hardly forbear smiling at his conception of protection.
A waiter assisted her with her cloak. When she took a seat opposite
to Windebank, he said:
"I like this place; there's no confounded music to interfere with
what one's got to say."
"I like music," Mavis remarked.
"Then let's go where they have it," he suggested, half rising.
"I want to go straight home, if you'll let me."
"Then we'll stay here. What are you going to eat?"
"Nothing."
"Rot! Here's the waiter chaps. Tell 'em what you want."
Two waiters approached the table, one with a list of food, the other
with like information concerning wines, which, at a nod from
Windebank, they put before Mavis.
Pages:
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254