He stood there, a statue of injured pride, looking at the neglected dish.
“It’s a noble stew,” said Felix. “Nothing wrong with the stew. Bring our coffee.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I take away the stew?”
“Please.”
He bore it away with a mournful air.
2
Rose-Ann was sitting back in her chair with the air of the discussion having become too absurd to go on with.
Felix looked inquiry.
“How little we know each other after all,” she said.
“Meaning?”