“What can I do?” Verplank with an uplift of the chin repeated. “Why, if only for the manner in which he acted last night—”
“I know,” Silverstairs interrupted. “The missis told me. He behaved like a fidgety Frenchman. I grant you that. But there were no words, nothing that you could put a finger on.”
Through an adjacent door a man strolled in. He had his hat on and in one gloved hand he held a thin umbrella of which the handle was studded with gold nails. With the other hand he smoothed a black moustache. Through a monocle he was surveying the room. He looked careless and cynical.
Deferentially a maître d’hôtel addressed him. Ignoring the man he waved his umbrella at Silverstairs.
Silverstairs waved his hand. He turned to Verplank. “Here’s de Fresnoy. He can put us straight. Let’s ask him to join us.”
Rising, he greeted the Parisian, invited him to the table, introduced Verplank, speaking as he did so in French, with an accent frankly barbarous which de Fresnoy seemed to enjoy.
The latter raised his hat to Verplank, confided it to the maître d’hôtel, gave him the umbrella also, while another waiter drew up for him a chair.
“Thanks,” he said in an interval of these operations. “I see you have breakfasted. If you don’t mind my eating while you smoke—”