"Strict?"
"Yes," she insisted, rather defensively. "Why not? I should like a strawberry ice, and a lemon-squash, and a millefeuille cake. Don't be alarmed, please. I'm a cave-woman. You've got to get used to it."
"What's a cave-woman?"
"It's something primitive. You must come over to
Paris. If father likes you, he'll take you to one of the weekly lunches of the Anglo-American Press Circle. He always does that when he likes anyone. He's the Treasurer.... Haven't you got any millefeuille cakes?" she demanded of the waitress, who had come to renew the table and had deposited a basket of various cakes.
"I'm afraid we haven't, miss," answered the waitress, not comprehending the strange word any better than George did.
"Bit rowdy, isn't it?" George observed, looking round, when the waitress had gone.
Lois said with earnestness:
"I simply love these big, noisy places. They make me feel alive."
He looked at her. She was very well dressed—more stylistic than any girl that he could see in the mirror. He could not be sure whether or not her yellow eyes had a slight cast; if they had, it was so slight as to be almost imperceptible. There was no trace of diffidence in them; they commanded. She was not a girl whom you could masculinely protect. On the contrary, she would protect not only herself but others.