“Speaking as a soldier,” said Armand de Vaux, “I see no safety for France or England, except in the power of their artillery. And I would give the luxury of this very charming dinner to sit in the mud again and hear the rafale of the soixante-quinzes pounding the Boche to bits.”
“You’re a bloodthirsty ogre!” said his wife, caressing his only hand.
“You’re a despiser of my poor little banquet,” said Kenneth, ordering some more Veuve Clicquot, and very artfully inviting an interruption of waiters, to change the drift of conversation which abandoned politics for a discussion on the psychology of “jazz,” led by the beautiful Mme. de Montauban, in reference to the efforts of the orchestra.
Kenneth had to return to the Embassy at ten o’clock.
Mme. de Montauban and her husband were going to a reception by the Duchesse d’Uzès. It was this lady who rose first, with a smile at Mme. de Vaux who accepted the signal.
The other little parties in the restaurant paid tribute to her beauty with their eyes, as Bertram helped to put her cloak on her shoulders.
She gave him her hand with a charming friendship.
“I understand your English point of view,” she said. “It is a little dangerous, I think. The English heart is greater than the English head!”
Then she leaned forward to him, smiling, and spoke in a low voice.
“Do not leave your wife alone too much. She is too beautiful! That is more important than politics—if you love her beauty!”