“My mistress calls me Babette,” she answered, her lashes drooping becomingly.
“Perfect!” cried Hood ecstatically. “And we are two outlaws whose names it is more discreet for us to withhold, even if it were proper to exchange names with a mere housemaid.”
Deering winced; it was indecent in Hood to treat her as though she were a housemaid when so obviously she was not.
“My friend doesn’t mean to be rude,” he explained; “the morning air always makes him a little delirious.”
“I hope I know my place,” the girl replied, “and I’m sure you gentlemen mean to be kind.”
“You needn’t count the spoons after we leave,” said Hood; “I assure you we have no professional designs on the house.”
“Thank you, sir. Of course, if you stole anything, it would be taken out of my wages.”
Deering’s interest in her increased.
She rested her chin on her hand just as his sister often did when they lingered together at table. He was a good brother and Constance was his standard. He was sure that Constance would like Pierrette’s maid. He resented Hood’s patronizing attitude toward the girl, but Hood’s spirits were soaring and there was no checking him.
“Babette,” he began, “I’m going to trouble you with a question, not doubting you will understand that my motives are those of a philosopher whose whole life has been devoted to the study of the human race. May I ask you to state in all sincerity whether you consider apple sauce the essential accompaniment of roast duck?”