“Have you engaged a table upstairs?” was her first inquiry, as with the assistance of a stout and gorgeous official I helped her to alight from her brougham at the portico of the house. (She looked lovely, and half the street was envying me; but unfortunately Rosie’s looks have nothing to do with the tale; let me therefore dismiss them as a dangerous topic.)
“No,” I said; “but I expect there’ll be plenty of room.”
“Plenty of room!” she exclaimed, with a charming scorn and a glance which said: “This young man really has a great deal to learn about the art of entertaining ladies at the Louvre.” I admit that I had.
“Oh, yes!” I insisted with bravado. “Plenty!”
“Ask the booking-clerk,” she commanded, and with all her inimitable grace she sank like a fatigued sylph into one of the easy-chairs that furnished the entrance-hall, and drew her cloak round her shoulders.
The booking-clerk, in faultless evening-dress, with a formidable silver chain encircling his neck, stood at the foot of the grand staircase, which was very grand. The booking-clerk politely but coldly informed me that he had not a table upstairs; he said that every table had been booked since a quarter to seven.
“Well, I suppose we must be content with downstairs, but I much prefer the balcony,” said Rosie when I told her. And Rosie was obviously cross. My dinner was beginning ominously.
I returned to the booking-clerk, who was then good enough to tell me that he had no table downstairs either. I felt rather an ass, but I never permit my asininity to go too far. I assumed an attitude of martial decision, and ordered one of the pages to get me a hansom.
“We will dine at the Savoy,” I said, very loud. Every official in the neighbourhood heard me. Rosie smiled, whether at the prospect of the Savoy or at my superb indignation I know not.
Just as we were emerging into the street the booking-clerk, his silver chain clinking, touched me on the shoulder.