Shayne hesitated. His calmness was not severely shaken, however. "I'm sorry, old man. You see, all day I've been fighting off starving and startled Americans and I thought you were one. I apologize for my mistake." He looked at Hugo with more interest. "As a matter of fact, I'm a little skittish about patriotism. And about war. Of course, I'm going to be in it. The first entertaining thing that has happened in a dog's age. But I'm a conscientious objector on principles. I rather thought I'd enlist in the Foreign Legion to-morrow."
He was an unfamiliar type to Hugo. He represented the American who had been educated at home and abroad, who had acquired a wide horizon for his views, who was bored with the routine of his existence. His clothes were elegant and impeccable. His face was very nearly inscrutable. Although he was only a few years older than Hugo, he made the latter feel youthful.
They had a brace of drinks, two more and two more. All about them was bedlam, as if the emotions of man had suddenly been let loose to sweep him off his feet. Grief, joy, rage, lust, fear were all obviously there in almost equal proportions.
Shayne extended his hand. "They have something to fight for, at least. Something besides money and glory. A grudge. I wonder what it is that makes me want to get in? I do."
"So do I."
Shayne shook his head. "I wouldn't if I were you. Still, you will probably be compelled to in a while." He looked at his watch. "Do you care to take dinner with me? I had an engagement with an aunt who is on the verge of apoplexy because two of the Boston Shaynes are in Munich. It scarcely seems appropriate at the moment. I detest her, anyway. What do you say?"
"I'd like to have dinner with you."
They walked down the Cannebière. At a restaurant on the east side near the foot of the thoroughfare they found a table in the corner. A pair of waiters hastened to take their order. The place was riotous with voices and the musical sounds of dining. On a special table was a great demijohn of 1870 cognac, which was fast being drained by the guests. Shayne consulted with his companion and then ordered in fluent French. The meal that was brought approached a perfection of service and a superiority of cooking that Hugo had never experienced. And always the babble, the blare of bands, the swelling and fading persistence of the stringed orchestra, the stream of purple Châteauneuf du Pape and its flinty taste, the glitter of the lights and the bright colours on the mosaics that represented the principal cities of Europe. It was a splendid meal.
"I'm afraid I'll have to ask your name again," Shayne said.
"Danner. Hugo Danner."