“I suppose there is something to pay—though we have had practically nothing. Waiter,”—with an accent on the “waiter,”—“let us know at once what there is to pay.”
The personage retired, presently to return with a document which he placed before the Major. The Major’s face at sight of it was a study.
“What! This! For such a meal! Monstrous, absolutely monstrous! Rank robbery, nothing else.”
He passed the document round the table. By each it was commented on with equal freedom, which was nice for me, who had consumed the repast to the charge for which my hosts objected to with so much vigour. The imposing personage’s attitude made it even nicer.
“These gentlemen object to the bill?”
“Object? I should think we do object. We object very much to being robbed.”
“If these gentlemen do not wish to pay the bill they need not. We shall not try to make them, not at all. We will make them a present of the food, the wine, the service, everything. Only—they will not be served in the house again.”
That, as I have said, was the climax. The bill was paid. My hosts did not propose to allow themselves to be regarded as recipients of charity. That manager of the private rooms showed, as I quitted the apartment, that his temper was still unruffled.
“Madame will permit that I offer her a flower.”
He held out a white rose. I placed it among Basil Carter’s lilies-of-the-valley. I sincerely trusted that Audrey had never seen such an expression on Mr Carter’s face. To me it looked like murder.