“I would like it very much, if you have no objection.”
“Just the opposite. But—please forgive me for touching on money matters—the charges may be rather dear. Won’t you let me tell the head waiter to—to include your bill with ours?”
“On the strict condition that you deduct twelve shillings from my account,” he said, stealing a glance at her.
“I shall be quite business-like, I promise.”
She was smiling at the landscape, or at some fancy that took her, perhaps. But it followed that a messenger was sent for Dale to the hostelry where he had booked a room for his master, and that Mrs. Devar, after one stony and indignant glare, whispered to Cynthia in the dining-room:
“Can that man in evening dress, sitting alone near the window, by any possibility be our chauffeur?”
“Yes,” laughed the girl. “That is Fitzroy. Say, doesn’t he look fine and dandy? Don’t you wish he was with us—to order the wine? And, by the way, is there a pier at Bournemouth?”