[10] Mr. Budd has employed an expressive anglicization of the customary but hackneyed “menu.” (Lit. Exec.)
“An Oxford friend of mine, Raoul,” said Wytham. “Mr. Gaveston ffoulis. Monsieur Raoul du Val.…”
A queer prescience made Gaveston refrain from proffering his hand. He only bowed to the rising figure of Monty’s friend. Somehow that name seemed familiar … somehow.… Where could he have heard it? Had Uncle Wilkie got a new story? Or what was it?
They sat down. A waiter hovered expectant. The maître d’hôtel stood near by watching them, stroking his beard in his nervousness. Gav’s personality was compelling in the most unlikely surroundings.
“This is my friend’s first dinner here, Raoul,” said Monty. “So I’d better leave it to you. You’re so good at ordering a dinner, you know.”
And Gaveston remembered. Of course! Of course! Du Val! He saw again his mother’s eyelids fluttering under the lamps of the flitting Bayswater streets as the Rolls Royce purred through the foggy December morning only a few weeks ago. Poor Mums!
Well, he would say nothing. But he could watch; it was a great opportunity. Perhaps he had been too filially swift in acquiescing so easily to his mother’s choice?
“I must think it out carefully, then,” said du Val with a quick smile as he resumed his study of the card.
“Do,” was Gaveston’s neatly ironic reply.