"Are the letters not late this morning?" she asked, allowing the question to pass.
Lord Hartledon glanced at the clock. "Very late: and we are late also. Are you expecting any in particular?"
"I don't know. This chocolate is cold."
"That is easily remedied," said he, rising to ring the bell. "They can bring in some fresh."
"And keep us waiting half-an-hour!" she grumbled.
"The hotel is crammed up to the mansarde," said good-natured Lord Hartledon, who was easily pleased, and rather tolerant of neglect in French hotels. "Is not that the right word, Maude? You took me to task yesterday for saying garret. The servants are run off their legs."
"Then the hotel should keep more servants. I am quite sick of having to ring twice. A week ago I wished I was out of the place."
"My dear Maude, why did you not say so? If you'd like to go on at once to Germany—"
"Lettres et journal pour monsieur," interrupted a waiter, entering with two letters and the Times.
"One for you, Maude," handing a letter to his wife. "Don't go," he continued to the waiter; "we want some more chocolate; this is cold. Tell him in French, Maude."