“And now what does one do?” he asked, for the sake of saying something.
“One eats it,” answered Clare, half impatiently.
He stared at her a moment and then broke into a laugh, and Clare, very much to her own surprise and annoyance, laughed too, in spite of herself. That broke the ice. When two people have laughed together over something one of them has said, there is no denying the acquaintance.
“It was really awfully kind of you!” he exclaimed, his eyes still laughing. “It was horridly rude of me to say anything at all, but I really couldn’t help it. If I could get anybody to introduce me, so that I could apologise properly, I would, you know, but in this place—”
He looked towards the German family and the English old maids, in a helpless sort of way, and then laughed again.
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” said Clare rather coldly.
“No—I suppose not,” he answered, growing graver at once. “And I think it is allowed—isn’t it?—to speak to one’s neighbour at a table d’hôte, you know. Not but what it was awfully rude of me, all the same,” he added hastily.
“Oh no. Not at all.”
Clare stared at the wall opposite and leaned back in her chair.
“Oh! thanks awfully! I was afraid you might think so, you know.”