“Excuse!”
The waiter put the orangeades on the table and went away to get change. Mirabelle’s eyes were wistfully fixed on a little door at the end of the room. It gave to the street, and there were taxicabs which could get her to Paddington in ten minutes.
When she looked round he was stirring the amber contents of her glass with a spoon. Two straws were invitingly protruding from the foaming orangeade. She smiled and lifted the glass as he fitted a cigarette into his long black holder.
“I may smoke—yes?”
The first taste she had through the straws was one of extreme bitterness. She made a wry face and put down the glass.
“How horrid!”
“Did it taste badly . . . ?” he began, but she was pouring out water from a bottle.
“It was most unpleasant——”
“Will you try mine, please?” He offered the glass to her and she drank. “It may have been something in the straw.” Here he was telling her the fact.
“It was . . .”