“Yes, I noticed it. But I have changed a great deal from the girl she saw occasionally; and a little care in make-up changes me still more.”
“I noted the oriental twist you gave yourself,” commented Selden, with a smile.
“I repeated it, of course, this afternoon, so she could not place me.”
“And you did not recall yourself to her memory?”
“No,” said the countess, and her face darkened. “I had a special reason for not doing so.”
Selden would have liked to know the reason, but the countess did not explain it, and he could scarcely ask. One thing was clear, however—the person Miss Davis disliked very much, and of whom the countess reminded her, was the countess herself.
His attention was distracted for the moment by the solemn ceremonial attending the preparation of the crêpes susettes. This too required the finished touch of the head waiter, for whom an alcohol lamp surmounted by a silver platter had been prepared. He lighted the wicks of the lamp, filled the platter with a sauce over which he had been working, whose basis was fine champagne, and, as it began to simmer, immersed in it one of the thin pancakes which had been brought from the kitchen. He turned the pancake over and over, sprinkled it with powdered sugar, folded and refolded it, gave it a dash of kümmel, powdered it again, and popped it to a plate in the hands of the attendant waiter, who hastened to place it piping hot before the countess.
“Please eat it at once, madame,” he implored.
And the countess ate it, while Selden’s was in course of preparation. There were three for each of them—three indescribably delicious morsels, such as only a French chef could conceive.
There had been a little bustle of new arrivals at the door, which Selden was too preoccupied to heed. And then he looked up to find Madame Ghita smiling down at him—that peculiar little smile which always puzzled him. She was perfectly gowned and fully as arresting as the countess—more so, perhaps—though on a different note; and with her were two companions, Miss Fayard and young Davis.