“Too much electricity in the air for me,” Peter answered. “I like a little repose. I can’t think where these people find it.”
“One hopes,” Sogrange murmured, “that before they progress any further in utilitarianism, they will find some artist, one of themselves, to express all this.”
“In the meantime,” Peter interrupted, “the waiter would like to know what we are going to drink. I’ve eaten such a confounded jumble of things of your ordering that I should like some champagne.”
“Who shall say that I am not generous!” Sogrange replied, taking up the wine carte. “Champagne it shall be. We need something to nerve us for our adventures.”
Peter leaned across the table.
“Sogrange,” he whispered, “for the last twenty-four hours I have had some doubts as to the success of our little enterprise. It has occurred to me more than once that we are being shadowed.”
Sogrange frowned.
“I sometimes wonder,” he remarked, “how a man of your suspicious nature ever acquired the reputation you undoubtedly enjoy.”
“Perhaps it is because of my suspicious nature,” Peter said. “There is a man staying in our hotel whom we are beginning to see quite a great deal of. He was talking to the head porter a few minutes before you this afternoon. He supped at the same restaurant last night. He is dining now three places behind you to the right, with a young lady who has been making flagrant attempts at flirtation with me, notwithstanding my gray hairs.”
“Your reputation, my dear Peter,” Sogrange murmured—