“You dear, beautiful—beautiful dear!”
Her answering smile seemed to come from a long way off.
They took their places, hers looking in the direction of Wynne’s table, and a busy waiter approached:
“Ah, in one minute the supper. Wine? Cliquot ver’ good.”
“Champagne?” queried Quiltan.
“I suppose so—yes, of course.”
He gave the order.
A consommé was brought in little cups. Presently a cork popped into a serviette and the creaming wine tinkled into the glasses. A few guests at the neighbouring table rose and left, one or two others following their example.
The company began to thin out, and vistas occurred through which one could see people in other parts of the room. The conversation lost its general constant hum and became isolated and more individual.