“I don’t follow you,” said Cartaret.
Houdon leered. His fingers performed on the table-cloth something that might have been the motif of Isolde.
“I have heard,” said he, “your American proverb that there are but two adequate excuses for tardiness at dinner—death and a lady—and I am charmed, monsieur, to observe that you are altogether alive.”
If Cartaret’s glance indicated that he would like to throttle the composer, Cartaret’s glance did not misinterpret.
“We won’t discuss that, if you please,” said he.
But Houdon was incapable of understanding such glances in such a connection. He tapped for the attention of his orchestra and got it.
“Messieurs,” he announced, “our good friend of the America of the North has been having an adventure.”
Everybody looked at Cartaret and everybody smiled.
“Delicious,” squeaked Varachon through his broken nose.