“Not a bad idea. For instance—”
He emptied his glass of Chablis and the butler was standing by to refill it when Charity answered:
“Mrs. Neff suggested a dancer I haven't seen on the stage for some time. You used to admire her.”
“Yes?” said Cheever, pushing his glass along the table toward the butler, who began to pour as Charity slid home her coup de grâce.
“Zada L'Etoile. What's become of her?”
Cheever's eyes gaped and his jaws dropped. The butler's expression was the same. He poured the Chablis on the back of Cheever's hand and neither noticed it till Charity laughed hysterically and drove the sword a little deeper:
“Is she still alive? Have you seen her?”
Cheever glared at her, breathed hard, swore at the butler, wiped his hand on his napkin, gnawed his lips, twisted his mustache, threw down the napkin, rose, and left the table.
Charity's smile turned to a grimace. She saw that the butler was ashamed of her. He almost told her that she ought to have known better than subject him and the other servants to such a scene.
Charity caught herself about to say, “I beg your pardon, Hammond.”