"That's right; don't stand for 'em. I've been reading novels, and I need a jar from an intelligence absolutely devoid of imagination."
"You'll get it if you don't behave yourself," said Kingsbury complacently. "The Countess of Semois probably knows who we are, and ten to one we'll meet her at that charity bazar at Semois-les-Bains this afternoon."
"I'm not going," said Smith, breaking an egg.
"Not going? You said you would go. Our Ambassador will be there, and we can meet the Countess if we want to."
"I don't want to. Suppose, after all, I had kissed her! No, I'm not going, I tell you."
"Very well; that's your own affair," observed the other, serenely occupied with the trout. "Perhaps you're right, too; perhaps the happy scullion whom you honoured may have complained about you to her mistress."
Smith sullenly tinkled the bell for more toast; a doll-faced maid in cap and apron brought it.
"Probably," said Kingsbury in English, "that is the species you fondled——"
Smith opened his novel and pretended to read; Kingsbury picked up the morning paper, propped it against a carafe, sipped his coffee, and inspected the headlines through his single eyeglass. For a few minutes peace and order hovered over the American breakfast; the men were young and in excellent appetite; the fragrance of the flowers was not too intrusive; discreet breezes stirred the leaves; and well-behaved little birds sang judiciously in several surrounding bushes.
As Kingsbury's eyes wandered over the paper, gradually focussing up a small paragraph, a frown began to gather on his youthful features.