“But hasn’t it affected her conduct? Didn’t you notice it as we came in?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
Nielsen wore a thoughtful frown, but smiled mischievously and declared: “There was nothing immoral, as far as I could make out.”
Breen was gracious enough to agree: “Perhaps not.”
They were silent. Carstairs watched them gloomily and then returned to his occupation. Erna came in, affecting a matter-of-fact air.
Breen and Nielsen pressed her with playful greetings and compliments. She accepted them as part of the tribute due her each day, but her stereotyped expression disappeared, and she was ready to take up her duties as gracious empress. Even her pugnacious nose appeared less pugnacious. Having recognized the young men’s tribute by a favor or two, she criticized genially: “You’re late this morning.”
“Nielsen overslept himself,” Breen explained.
“Don’t you believe him—he overslept himself,” Nielsen retorted.
Erna was leaning against their table, her arms akimbo. The pair received a glance each, as was their due, and then she studied Carstairs. “Maybe it was you, Mr. Carstairs?”