"The Knight of the Grand Gorge—two pots crossed and a tumbler rampant. Puts Pommery in your thoughts. Suppose we do?"
Faber gave the order and the wine was served. Accustomed to the immense hotels of New York, he found the Ritz interesting chiefly by reason of its guests. The women were magnificently gowned, and many of them very pretty. Such a cosmopolitan company could hardly be found in any other hotel on the Continent; its united wealth would have financed a kingdom. Faber reflected with satisfaction that he had the right to be there. His brains had earned him the title.
"About this parson's daughter," Bertie asked; "what's she doing in such a place as this?" He had grown curious, for Gabrielle Silvester was quite the most beautiful woman in the room.
"She appears to be eating at present."
"Yes, I know; but who are her friends?"
"The man is Sir Jules Achon. He's a big man—those who come after will hear of him. Have you read nothing of the Federation of Europe?"
"Not as much as the top dot of a semicolon. Who's going to federate?"
"It's his own idea. Kill war by commerce—you can't kill it any other way. Europe's paying ten per cent taxation as against America for her armies and navies. Make one federated state with no commercial barriers, and you knock the ten per cent down to two. That's Sir Jules's notion."
"You don't think there's anything in it?"
"So much that if I was British born, I'd give him a headline in dollars which would set the town talking. There's everything in it except the men. He's got the German Emperor, and he'll get the Tsar. It's the smaller fry who don't listen."