This served as an answer to Hicks, and an order to the waiter at the same time; and with a nod Trist passed on to the dressing-rooms.
'Where will Mr. Trist dine?' asked Hicks, turning to the waiter, and speaking somewhat sharply, as people do who fear the ridicule of their inferiors.
'At my table, sir!' with a certain air of possession.
'Then just move my plate ... and things ... to the same, will you?'
When the war-correspondent returned to the dining-room, he found Hicks established at the table where he invariably sat, and the waiter holding a chair in readiness for him with a face of the most complete stolidity. Without betraying either pleasure or annoyance, he took the proffered chair and attacked his soup in a business-like way, which did not promise conversational leisure.
'In a deuce of a hurry, old man!' suggested the artist.
'Yes. Have to catch a train.'
'Going off to the East, I suppose?' asked Hicks carelessly.
With his shallow blue eyes persistently fixed on Trist's face, he stroked his moustache daintily.
'Yes.'