"Not yet," Bellamy admitted equably. He nodded to their hovering waiter. "What kind of cocktail, Amelie? Everything else is ordered."
"Thank goodness: I'm famished. A T-N-T, please."
The waiter noted down this frightful prescription with entire equanimity, but lingered. "And monsieur——?"
"Nothing, thank you."
"Nothing, monsieur?" Professional poise was sadly shattered for an instant. Why should one punish oneself with the cuisine of the Clique and reject the solitary compensation the establishment had to offer? Ejaculating "Nothing!" once more, in a tone of profound perturbation, the waiter retired.
Bellamy tried to cover his annoyance with a laugh, but surprised a look of dark resentment in Amelie's eyes and opened his own. "Hello?"
"Why did you do that? Simply to mortify me?"
"Afraid I don't follow——"
"Do you want the waiters to think you bring me here solely to satisfy my appetite for liquor? It isn't as if you were a plaster saint in that line yourself—not exactly."
"Sorry, Amy. Make it a rule never to drink before evening."