He drew the money, strolled to the hotel, asked for Fernand, and found him at a glass screen in a superb room that ran from street to street. A multitude of red chairs populated the floor, and the medallioned white ceiling was a huge ellipse that looked as big as the earth's orbit.
Fernand was cautiously gracious till he learned that Miss Cabot had sent Forbes to him; then he became quite paternal. Forbes slipped him a ten-dollar bill, and he listened almost tenderly as Forbes explained:
"I want to give a little luncheon—nothing elaborate, but—well, something rather nice, you know."
"Perfectly, M'sieur. And how many will there be?"
Fernand spoke English glibly, with hardly more accent than a sweetish thickness.
"We are seven," said Forbes.
"Very good, sir. Will you select what you wish, or—"
He handed Forbes the card of the day. Forbes looked at the French. He could read military memoirs and strategical works in French, but he was floored by the technical food-terms. A glimpse at the prices unnerved him further; but he asked: "What would you suggest—I'm just home from Asia. I feel a little out of it."
"If Monsieur would permit me," said Fernand, with the eagerness of a benevolent conspirator, an artist with a mission, "I will arrange it and give you a pleasant surprise or two."
Forbes swallowed a small lump of embarrassment, and was careful to ask carelessly: