"I thought," replied Trevalyon, "for a man of your taste, you had a most contentedly jolly look; no wonder, when we know the way to the aldermanic heart is through the aldermanic stomach."
"Capt. Trevalyon," laughingly said Vaura, "besides the recherche little dinner Mr. Bertram has bid us to, I want you to cater to— another sense and let us see the immense Hotel Continental!"
"Consider the Continental on the programme, my dear Miss Vernon; Mr.
Bertram's chef de cuisine will cater to the inner man," answered
Trevalyon.
"Women sometimes eat," said Vaura, demurely.
"How gay the streets look," remarked Lady Esmondet, "it is always a fete day a Paris."
"A month or two ago the bands in the parks filled the air with music," said Vaura; "now it is filled with the murmur of many voices, see the little chesnut-seller doing his part."
"Here we are, Hotel Liberte le Soleil," said Trevalyon, as the carriage stopped.
"And here we part," said Bertram, "not, in the language of the poet, 'to meet no more,' but to meet on to-morrow eve at my appartments, and I shall inform my cook that three of England's epicures honour me, and to get up something better than frogs' legs."
"We shall expect ambrosia," laughed Lady Esmondet.
"Tres bien, I shall not forget," said Bertram, as he made his adieux.