Bruce swung the door for them, and they passed into a little narrow shop-like place.
Judith's eyes were wide and dismayed.
"I don't think this is very nice," she whispered as Bruce was exchanging a few words with the smiling proprietor in the little cage behind the tiny counter.
"Hush," cautioned Patricia, using her eyes industriously. "It must be all right, or Bruce wouldn't have brought us. I like it. The floor is sanded, Judy! And those people at the snippy little tables under the stairs are French—just hear them gabble to the waiter."
Judith recovered sufficiently to take notice.
"There isn't any table—" she had begun, still with slight protest in her voice, when Bruce ushered them up the narrow vertical stair to the larger room above where more tables and windows made a cozy dining place for about a dozen people.
The waiter, a broad-faced Belgian, rushed forward with a smile of genuine welcome and a flourish of the spotless towel which he wore upon his left shoulder, and, with a few murmured words in French, motioned them to a table by the front window.
When they were being settled in their places, Judith found opportunity to whisper to Bruce, who immediately turned to the Belgian, who was helping Patricia remove her coat.
"You have good custom today, François," he said with a gesture toward the chattering groups at the other tables.
The waiter bowed as he folded the coat carefully.