"Don't tell me I've—" Lady Neave turned to look at the back of her chair—"yes, gone and forgotten it!" She moved outward on her swiveled seat.
"No! no!" The congressman from Vermont protested there was no need to prepare for anything so grotesque, so melodramatic, as a cold-blooded attempt to sink this poor old tub.
Miss Greta held high her braid-crowned head. "This innocent old tub," she said, "has carried thousands of tons of ammunition; but," she added relentingly, "I don't think Lady Gieve—oh, forgive me! I mean Lady Neave," she bent gracious brows upon her opposite neighbor,—"I quite agree you won't need your packet on this voyage."
No one answered. In the midst of a general animation, the silence that reigned again around Greta spoke loud. She stared about her.
"What has become of the hors d'œuvres?" she demanded. The Dutch steward could not have helped hearing. He went on serving the others. Again she spoke to him, more sharply still.
"Alvays it ees somet'ing! From de fir-rst you come on board," he muttered incoherently.
She turned round in her seat.
"What? What do you say?"
"Vhat I say? You need not be down on me because Zhermany is beat."
Miss Greta stared.