“Go to! I'll lay odds that our hostess is under twenty-five.”
“I meant young women of sixteen or seventeen. Women such as Madame have long since passed the uniform fever.”
“Not when it has lace, my friend, court lace. Well, forward to the dining hall.”
Both were rather disappointed to find that Madame would be absent until dinner. Fitzgerald could not tell exactly why he was disappointed, and he was angry with himself for the vague regret. Maurice, however, found consolation in the demure French maid who served them. Every time he smiled she made a courtesy, and every time she left the room Maurice nudged Fitzgerald.
“Smile, confound you, smile!” he whispered. “There's never a maid but has her store of gossip, and gossip is information.”
“Pshaw!” said Fitzgerald, helping himself to cold ham and chicken.
“Wine, Messieurs?” asked the maid.
“Ah, then Madame offers the cellars?” said Maurice.
“Yes, Messieurs. There is chambertin, champagne, chablis, tokayer and sherry.”
“Bring us some chambertin, then.”