"Philippa!" cried one of the Louvain students, hammering on the table with his beer glass. "Come out from behind your guichet and dance with me!"
The girl's grey eyes turned superciliously toward the speaker, but she neither answered nor moved her head.
The young man blew a kiss toward her and attempted to climb upon the zinc table, but old man Wildresse, who was prowling near, tapped him on the shoulder.
"Pas de bêtise!" he growled. "Soyez sage! Restez tranquille, nom de Dieu!"
"I merely desired the honor of dancing with your charming cashier—"
"Allons! Assez! It's sufficient to ask her, isn't it? A woman dances with whom she chooses."
And, grumbling, he walked on with his heavy sidling step, hands clasped behind him, his big, hard, smoothly shaven face lowered and partly turned, as though eternally listening for somebody just at his heels. Always sidling nearer to the table where Warner and Halkett were seated, he paused, presently, and looked down at them, shot a glance across at the girl, Philippa, caught her eye, nodded significantly. Then, addressing Warner and his new friend:
"Well, gentlemen," he said in English, "are you amusing yourselves in the Café Biribi?"
"Sufficiently," nodded Warner.
Wildresse peeped stealthily over his shoulder, as though expecting to surprise a listener. Then his very small black eyes stole toward Halkett, and he furtively examined him.