“Chosen your weapons yet?” he asked.
“I haven’t much choice, have I?” she answered, a little bitterly. “I fight, of course.”
Deyes was carefully scanning the menu through his horn-rimmed eyeglass.
“Becassine à la Broche,” he murmured. “I must remember that.”
Then he turned in his chair and looked at Wilhelmina.
“You are worrying,” he declared abruptly.
She shrugged her shoulders, alabaster white, rising from the unrelieved black of her velvet gown.
“My maid’s fault,” she added. “I ought to have worn white. Of course I’m worrying. I don’t care about carrying the signs of it about with me though. I think I shall have to adopt Peggy’s advice, and go to the rouge-pot.”
“Perhaps,” he said deliberately, “it will not be necessary.”
She looked up at him quickly. His words sounded encouraging.