"Then round—in a careless manner—goes my head!" said Arthur.
"He woos her, I swear he woos her, curses on his mother's grave!" Joe rode his jokes rather hard.
"We'd better not all stare at her, had we?" asked Marie.
"She's not looking; she's listening to the man," Amabel assured her.
Arthur turned round again—after a long look. He gave a little laugh. "It's my cousin, Bernadette Lisle. Joe, you are an ass."
It was Bernadette Lisle; she sat at a little table with Oliver Wyse. They had finished eating. Bernadette was putting on her gloves. Her eyes were fixed on Oliver's face, her lips were parted. The scene of the Café de Paris reproduced itself—and perhaps the topic. She had not seen Arthur when he came in, nor he her. She did not see him now. She listened to Sir Oliver.
"Your cousin! That! Introduce me—there may yet be time!" said the indomitable Joe.
"Oh, shut up!" groaned Arthur, half-flattered however, though half-peevish.
"She's very beautiful." Marie's eyes could not leave Bernadette. "And so—so—well, she looks like something very very precious in china."
Arthur looked round again; he could not help it. "Yes, that is rather it, Marie."