“Dinner is served,” Kendall said, “and I’m hungry.”
A fine, thick soup steamed in a huge bowl in the middle of the table, and Arlette watched with big-eyed anxiety while Bert served it. Before any one could taste a spoonful her impatience overcame her; she could contain herself no longer.
“It is pea soup,” she said, explosively.
Madeleine laughed, showing her fine white teeth. “It is very good,” she said in French.
“Monsieur Kendall does not like,” exclaimed Arlette, in heartrending accents as she perceived that Ken did not at once address himself to the potage, but sat regarding Andree, forgetful of everything else.
“Oh yes, he does,” said Bert, “but Monsieur Kendall is in love. Presently if he does not eat I shall feed him.... Arlette,” he demanded, severely, “are you in love with some young man?”
“Ho!...” she exclaimed, and, overcome with embarrassed giggles, scurried out of the room.
“C’est drôle,” said Andree, judgmatically.
“Is red wine or white wine desired?” Arlette asked from the door.
“Suppose we try a bottle of that Anjou Rose,” said Ken. “I like the color of it.”