"Yes, Mr. Haydon, sir," he said clearly. "We do not complain. Our trade keeps up, sir. We are the same as when you left, sir. We do not complain."
Patricia laughed at Judith's expression, as she watched François whisk away to the dumb-waiter in the far corner of the little apartment, and roar stentorian commands in indistinguishable French to an unseen source of supply below.
"He just uses his French to plot his dark plots with, Judy darlin'," she said, merrily. "You needn't try to make them out, for he doesn't intend you to."
"I heard 'Chateaubriand,' anyway," retorted Judith triumphantly. "And that means beefsteak. So I did understand something, you see."
Bruce made a gesture of mock despair. "Heavens, I'm discovered!" he cried, with a twinkle. "Judy knows just what she's going to have for lunch, and there won't be any surprise, after all."
Patricia looked inquiringly at him.
"Is that the grand surprise you meant, Bruce Haydon? Sure you aren't fooling us? Oh, you are! You've got something else—I know it by your eyes. You look awfully guilty."
"Do I?" asked Bruce innocently. "I wish there was a mirror here so I could see how that looks. Here comes François with the bouillon and omelets. Don't let him see me, please, till I've gotten up a better expression."
François served them deftly, while still attending to all the other tables, and Patricia, in the intervals of merry chatter, wondered at the innumerable bits of respectful conversation he managed to supply his patrons in addition to his very satisfactory table service, and she said so to Bruce, just as the dessert had been placed and François had withdrawn to a party of newcomers.
Bruce, however, was remarkably absent in his reply.