He looked up. “Me?”
“Yes—maybe it was you that overslept yourself.”
Carstairs blushed, his friends laughed, and he denied with a return of good nature: “No. They were the ones.”
“He’s not awake yet, Erna,” Breen fought back.
“He doesn’t look it,” she seconded.
The young composer blushed again, but did not defend himself this time. Nielsen eyed him with friendly concern.
“Your orders, gentlemen.”
“What’s your hurry?” Breen complained.
“You don’t suppose I can stand here all day,” she reminded him.
“But I want to admire you a little,” he protested. “Who wants to eat in the presence of a—of a—Why, look at the beautiful red ribbon! Is it a new one, Erna?”