“The Quarter is a law unto itself. Be a law unto yourself, Rex—Good night, old chap.”
“Good night, Braith,” said Gethryn slowly.
CHAPTER V.
Thirion’s at six pm. Madame Thirion, neat and demure, sat behind her desk; her husband, in white linen apron and cap, scuttled back and forth shouting, “Bon! Bon!” to the orders that came down the call trumpet. The waiters flew crazily about, and cries went up for “Pierre” and “Jean” and “green peas and fillet.”
The noise, smoke, laughter, shouting, rattle of dishes, the penetrating odor of burnt paper and French tobacco, all proclaimed the place a Latin Quarter restaurant. The English and Americans ate like civilized beings and howled like barbarians. The Germans, when they had napkins, tucked them under their chins. The Frenchmen—well! they often agreed with the hated Teuton in at least one thing; that knives were made to eat with. But which of the four nationalities exceeded the others in turbulence and bad language would be hard to say.
Clifford was eating his chop and staring at the blonde adjunct of a dapper little Frenchman.
“Clifford,” said Carleton, “stop that.”
“I’m mesmerizing her,” said Clifford. “It’s a case of hypnotism.”
The girl, who had been staring back at Clifford, suddenly shrugged her shoulders, and turning to her companion, said aloud:
“How like a monkey, that foreigner!”