“Yes, I wandered into the chancery and got them to make up a bag. After that there was no difficulty, but the boat will be ankle-deep in Ministry of Munitions people and Treasury people and Propaganda people. There are more English officials than Americans in New York to-day. Precious glad every one will be to get rid of us! By the way, Sadler Long wants to give us a farewell dinner at the Biltmore; I said you weren’t doing anything. Was that all right?”
“Is it to-night?”
“No. We’re dining with Grant to-night at the Plaza. It’s a farewell dinner to Eric Lane, the dramatist fellow. The great American people will be both tired and dyspeptic by the time it’s given a farewell dinner to every munition-contractor, exchange-stabilizer and itinerant lecturer in the country.”
“I want to meet Mr. Lane,” said Lady John.
“Well, you’ll have every opportunity on the boat. I can’t say I do.”
A waiter came to their table with two cocktails. Carstairs signed for them, lighted a cigarette and leaned back with one leg thrown over the other. On the far side of the serried palm-tubs and wicker chairs, an English voice said:
“Waiter! I ordered a Number Twenty-Three.”
“Number Twenty-Three,” repeated the waiter, turning his head for an instant in full flight.
Eric Lane nodded and pretended to read his paper, refusing to be driven from a comfortable chair because a strange Englishman, with the notorious tact of the English, chose to discuss him by name at two yards’ distance. Until three minutes before, he had been agreeably lulled by the high hum of American voices; but this drawling English, with a hint of impatient superiority in it, assailed and defeated him. He was also humanly curious to know what the strange Englishman had heard or thought about him.
“I like his plays,” said Lady John. “Is there anything against him?”