Mademoiselle Rosine pouted, but said nothing. The young lady from America tried to take Macheson’s hand.
“Yes!” she murmured. “Do let’s! I’m dead tired.”
She whispered something in Macheson’s ear which he affected not to hear. He leaned back in his cushioned seat and laughed.
“What, go home without seeing François!” he exclaimed. “He’s keeping the corner table for us, and we’re all going to dance the Maxixe with the little Russian girl.”
“We could telephone,” Davenant suggested. “Do you know that we haven’t been to bed before six one morning since we arrived in Paris?”
“Well, isn’t that what we came for?” Macheson exclaimed. “We can go to bed at half-past twelve in London. Maître d’hôtel, the wine! My friends are getting sleepy. What’s become of the music? Tell our friend there—ah! Monsieur Henri!”
He beckoned to the leader of the orchestra, who came up bowing, with his violin under his arm.
“Monsieur Henri, my friends are ‘triste,’” he explained. “They say there is no music here, no life. They speak of going home to bed. Look at mademoiselle here! She yawns! We did not come to Paris to yawn. Something of the liveliest. You understand? Perhaps mademoiselle there will dance.”
“Parfaitement, monsieur.”
The man bowed himself away, with a twenty-franc piece in the palm of his hand. The orchestra began a gay two-step. Macheson, starting up, passed his arm round the waist of a little fair-haired Parisienne just arriving. She threw her gold satchel on to a table, and they danced round the room. Davenant watched them with unwilling admiration.