“Oh, well!” Claire tried to look unconcerned. “Men are always pretty much the same. Evening dress does not make the same difference to them.”
She knew a momentary fear lest he should believe she was fishing for a compliment, and give the ordinary banal reply; but he looked at her with a grave scrutiny, and asked quietly—
“Was that one of the frocks which went astray?”
“Yes! All of it. It wasn’t even divided in half.”
“It was a good thing the box turned up!” he said; and there, after all, was the compliment, but so delicately inferred that the most fastidious taste could not object.
With the finishing of the soup came the first reference to Claire’s work, for the Captain’s casual “Do you care for anything solid, or would you prefer a sweet?” evoked a round-eyed stare of dismay.
“Oh, please!” cried Claire deeply. “I want to go straight through. I’ve been living on mutton and cabbage for over two months, and cooking suppers on a chafing-dish. I looked forward to supper as part of the treat!”
The plain face lightened into a delightful smile.
“That’s all right!” he cried. “Now we know where we are. I hadn’t much dinner myself, so I’m quite game. Let us study the book of the words.”
A ménu lay on the table, a square white card emblazoned with many golden words. Captain Fanshawe drew his chair nearer, and ran his finger down the list, while Claire bent forward to signify a yea or nay. Every delicacy in season and out of season seemed to find its place on that list, which certainly justified Master Reginald’s eulogy of his mother’s “good feeds.” Claire found it quite a serious matter to decide between so many good things, and even with various curtailments, made rather out of pride than inclination, the meal threatened to last some considerable time.