There she was, being a simpleton again, despite her resolution!
She obeyed, and cautiously opened the door, standing behind it.
A middle-aged whiskered servant, in a long white apron, announced matters in French which passed her understanding. But Gerald had heard from the bed, and he replied.
“Bien, monsieur!” The servant departed, with a bow, down the obscure corridor.
“It’s Chirac,” Gerald explained when she had shut the door. “I was forgetting I asked him to come and have lunch with us, early. He’s waiting in the drawing-room. Just put your bodice on, and go and talk to him till I come.”
He jumped out of bed, and then, standing in his night-garb, stretched himself and terrifically yawned.
“Me?” Sophia questioned.
“Who else?” said Gerald, with that curious satiric dryness which he would sometimes import into his tone.
“But I can’t speak French!” she protested.
“I didn’t suppose you could,” said Gerald, with an increase of dryness; “but you know as well as I do that he can speak English.”