If I hadn’t won this argument, I wouldn’t repeat it.
Not until we reached our château did I realize why I had been so catty. I’d gone without my tea.
Sunday, September 9. Paris.
Mr. Gibbons and I this morning bade good-by to our genial hosts and were driven to the station at which we arrived last Wednesday. On the Paris-bound train I wondered audibly why the servants had given me that queer look before we left.
“Did you tip them?” asked Mr. Gibbons.
“Certainly!” I snapped.
“I’ll bet I know,” said Mr. Gibbons. “You probably packed your own suit-case.”
He was right.