The viande was served alone, as is the French custom, without a vegetable, but with a delicious sauce which the girls, disdaining butter, sopped from their plates with their bread—not at all a manifestation of ill-breeding, but the proper and natural and habitual method of eating.
Ken turned to Andree. “I met your actor for you last night,” he said.
“You have known an actor?... What actor?”
“Monsieur Robert, of the Comédie Française. Do you know him?”
“I have seen him. He is a very good actor—and very handsome, n’est-ce pas? Have you spoke of me?”
“No, my dear. Give a fellow time.”
“But you must, you must.... It is ver’ nécessaire—oh, you do not know how ver’ nécessaire. It is my need to enter into the Académie, and he must help me. You will know him better.” It was a command. “You will then make me to know him.”
“I should say not.... He’s too handsome. I’m not going to take any such chance as that—I should say not.”
“Pourquoi?”
“Because I should be jealous,” he said.