“But I zink we’ll risk zem, all ze same,” he said, and gave his order to the waiter.
Instantly Gaveston beckoned to the maître d’hôtel.
“Two telegraph forms and a sheet of carbon paper,” he ordered, with quiet, determined voice.
“Certainly, sir.”
They were brought.
“You excuse me a moment,” said Gaveston, and, adjusting the carbon with his own hands, scribbled a few lines with his gold-mounted pencil.
“Take this,” he said to the maître d’hôtel. “See that it’s sent off at once. Eighteen words—that’ll be one and sixpence. You can keep the change.” He handed him the topmost form, and the borrowed carbon paper, and folding up the duplicate placed it in his breast pocket.
“And now let us proceed with the feast,” he said brightly, as the waiter set out the hors d’œuvres on the table.
The feast proceeded. The fate-laden ortolans appeared in due course, and disappeared. Du Val was delighted with them, and invoked curses upon the foreboding Capriote, but Gaveston contented himself filially with a simple dish of cod. Whilst the party were dallying over the delicious croûte-au-pot which du Val had chosen as a savoury, a broad-shouldered attendant struggled painfully up to their corner, now the cynosure of every eye,[11] bearing the marble top of a table.