Maisie shrugged. “I suppose so.”
Tamea favored Mellenger with a sidelong glance of disillusionment and contempt. She spoke in French. “It appears that the rules of deportment are broken as readily by those who dwell in this country as by those who are ignorant of those rules. Now I shall proceed to be happy again. What an excellent soup!”
She saw by the look in Maisie’s eyes that Maisie had not understood her. And this was true, for while Maisie was presumed to have learned French in high school, it was high-school French, and Tamea’s rapid-fire utterance was far beyond her understanding.
“I hope you will be very happy,” she said in English to Maisie, who thanked her with a demure smile. To Mellenger she said in a swift aside: “I know very well she will not! What a curious dinner party! This woman is thinking of schemes to take from me the man whom I desire. Alas! She is no match for me, for look you, Mel, she has not the courage to take that which she desires.”
“Unfortunately, she has not, Tamea. Nevertheless, she may develop a form of courage that may amaze you. Just now she gave you a bad minute or two.”
Tamea shrugged. “I have no fear. That which I desire I take, and that which I take I think, perhaps—I—can—keep.”
“Well, suppose we discuss something else,” Mellenger suggested in his surprisingly good French. “And if you do not feel equal to the task of keeping pace with the discussion, try being silent awhile.”
Tamea included Dan and Maisie in her retort to this fundamentally solid bit of advice. “This large friend of yours does not like me, no?”
“Why, of course he likes you. Nobody could help liking you!” This from Maisie, who was bound to be cheerful and complimentary at any cost.
“You are wrong, Maisie. Mel thinks very quickly, and he talks as quickly as he thinks. He thinks clearly, too. . . . Well, I should like him for my good friend. One does not care for stupeed men. Mel is very honest. He will make a good fight, yes? I think so. Yes, you bet. And I will make a good fight, also.”