"Eat away, if hungry. That is a beastly mess which Labrie has hashed up."
"Call you partridges so? You slander your feast. Game-birds in May? Shot on your preserves?"
"Mine? My good father left me some, but I got rid of them long ago. I have not a yard of land. That lazybones Gilbert, only good for mooning about, stole a gun somewhere and done a bit of poaching. He will go to jail for it, and a good riddance. But Andrea likes game, and so far, I forgive the boy."
Balsamo contemplated the lovely face without perceiving a twinge, wrinkle or color, as she helped them to the dish, cooked by Labrie, furnished by Gilbert, and maligned by the baron.
"Are you admiring the salt dish again, baron?"
"No, the arm of your daughter."
"Capital! the reply is worthy the gallant Richelieu. That piece of plate was ordered of Goldsmith Lucas by the Regent of Orleans. Subject: the Amours of the Bacchantes and Satyrs—rather free."
More than free, obscene—but Balsamo admired the calm unconcern of Andrea, not blenching as she presented the plate.
"Do eat," said the host; "do not fancy that another dish is coming, for you will be dreadfully disappointed."
"Excuse me, father," interrupted the girl with habitual coolness, "but if Nicole has understood me, she will have made a cake of which I told her the recipe."