Trent reached for his hat and whispered in Ernestine's ear.
“You are all coming to supper with me at the 'Milan,'” he said; “I am going on now to see about it.”
She smiled upon him, evidently pleased.
“What a charming idea! But do you mean all of us?”
“Why not?”
He found his carriage outside without much difficulty and drove quickly round to the Milan Restaurant. The director looked doubtful.
“A table for eighteen, sir! It is quite too late to arrange it, except in a private room.”
“The ladies prefer the large room,” Trent answered decidedly, “and you must arrange it somehow. I'll give you carte blanche as to what you serve, but it must be of the best.”
The man bowed. This must be a millionaire, for the restaurant was the “Milan.”
“And the name, sir?”