The Englishman glared angrily at Gerald’s officious interruption. But the woman smiled benevolently on Gerald, and insisted on talking to her friend through him. And the Englishman had to make the best of the situation.
“There isn’t a restaurant in Paris to-night where they aren’t talking about that execution,” said Gerald on his own account.
“Indeed!” observed the Englishman.
Wine affected them in different ways.
Now a fragile, short young Frenchman, with an extremely pale face ending in a thin black imperial, appeared at the entrance. He looked about, and, recognizing the woman of the scarlet cloak, very discreetly saluted her. Then he saw Gerald, and his worn, fatigued features showed a sudden, startled smile. He came rapidly forward, hat in hand, seized Gerald’s palm and greeted him effusively.
“My wife,” said Gerald, with the solemn care of a man who is determined to prove that he is entirely sober.
The young man became grave and excessively ceremonious. He bowed low over Sophia’s hand and kissed it. Her impulse was to laugh, but the gravity of the young man’s deference stopped her. She glanced at Gerald, blushing, as if to say: “This comedy is not my fault.” Gerald said something, the young man turned to him and his face resumed its welcoming smile.
“This is Monsieur Chirac,” Gerald at length completed the introduction, “a friend of mine when I lived in Paris.”
He was proud to have met by accident an acquaintance in a restaurant. It demonstrated that he was a Parisian, and improved his standing with the whiskered Englishman and the vermilion cloak.
“It is the first time you come Paris, madame?” Chirac addressed himself to Sophia, in limping, timorous English.