“How did you know,” I persisted, “that my friend was a man?”
“You yourself,” said he, “supplied the gender.”
“But not in the first instance.”
“No, not in the first instance,” he agreed, and said no more.
“You don’t like the Ritz?” I asked after an interval, just to talk and be talked to. I was horribly bored, that is the truth, by my own society; and here was at least a compatriot to share some of its burden with me.
“I never said so,” he answered. “But I confess it is too sumptuous for me. I lodge at the Hôtel Montesquieu, if you would know.”
“Where is that, may I ask?”
“It is in the Rue Montesquieu, but a step from here.”
“I should like, if you don’t mind, to hear something of it. I am at the Ritz, true, but in a furiously economical mood.”
“Certainly,” he answered, with perfect good-humour. “It would not suit all people; it does not even figure in the guides; but for those of an unexacting disposition—well it might serve—to pass the time. You can have your good bedroom there and your adequate petit déjeuner—nothing more. For meals, there is a Duval’s across the road, or, more particularly, the Restaurant au Bœuf à la mode in the Rue de Valois close by, where such delicacies may be tasted as sole à la Russe, or noisettes d’agneau à la Réjane. Try it.”