After a fourth cocktail and a minute sardine sandwich, Horace said he was obliged to go.
“Au revoir!” he said to Frankie, with a very bad accent. “If this boy gives you any trouble, you let me know, eh?”
He clasped her hand in his warm, moist one with genuine good-will, slapped Lionel on the shoulder, and went out, edging his way clumsily among the little low tables.
Lionel gave a sigh of comfort, and leaned across the table.
“May I have another cup?” he asked.
Frances was looking at him sternly.
“Mr. Naylor!” she said, “You have given your brother a false impression.”
He was startled.
“I ... so it seems,” he said, weakly, “I ... he does seem....”
“It isn’t fair,” she went on, “I’m surprised at you! What could I do? Or say? Mr. Naylor, really, it was not right of you!”