“Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?” with a low bow. The carte de jour was before Monsieur. He had but to give his orders. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. And always they were well satisfied. He waited the pleasure of Monsieur.
Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne.
“I am afraid,” he said to Anna afterwards, “that it was a mistake to order the champagne sec. They will guess that I am English.”
Annabel leaned back in her chair and laughed till the tears stood in her eyes.
“Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed.
“I don’t see why not,” he answered. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. Perhaps I ought to have let you order the dinner, but I think I got through it pretty well.”
“You did,” Anna exclaimed. “Thank Heaven, they are bringing the hors d’oeuvres. John, I shall eat that whole tin of sardines. Do take them away from me after I have had four.”
“After all,” Sir John remarked complacently, “it is astonishing how easy it is for people with brains and a little knowledge of the world to completely hide themselves. I am absolutely certain that up to the present we have escaped all notice, and I do not believe that any casual observer would take us for English people.”
A man who had been sitting with his hat tilted over his eyes at an adjacent table had risen to his feet and stood suddenly before them.
“Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph. “You may find in it a paragraph of some interest to you.”