“No, madam,” he said without hesitation.
“But you must have—you were close by.”
Eugene tried not to smile, but he could not help it.
“You are telling a story in order to save my feelings, aren’t you?” she said brusquely.
Eugene shrugged his shoulders. “A story—well, scarcely that.”
“It is better to hurt my feelings,” she said gravely, “than to say what is not true. I spoke too quickly about the oysters. Here is cold meat and a salad—we shall have enough. I suppose you like oil in your salad.”
“I do, madam.”
“I’ve noticed French people do. My husband takes sugar and vinegar on his. Now I will get the chocolate, and we can sit down as soon as Stephen comes.”
“Why, you and my wife are getting on famously,” said the sergeant, rubbing his hands as he entered the room.