"You honor my poor hotel!" he assured her.
"It is certainly a very poor hotel," she answered.
"Do you expect to remain long, may I ask?"
"What right have you to ask me questions? Tell that native to go away from behind my chair. My own maid will wait on me!"
Whether purposely or not, she cast such a chill upon the company that even Georges Coutlass subsided within himself, and, though he ate like a ravening animal, did not talk. Almost the only conversation was between the owner and the native servants, who waited at table abominably and were noisily reprimanded, and argued back. Each reprimand increased their inefficiency and insolence. Natives detest a fussy, noisy white man.
Bad food, indifferent cooking, and no conversation worthy of the name produced gloom that drove every one from table as soon as possible. Even the proprietor, with unsatiable curiosity exuding from him, but no spirit for forcing issues, departed to a sanctum of his own up somewhere under the roof. The boys cleared the tables. The smell of food spread itself and settled slowly. A half-breed butler served countless orders of drinks on trays, and sent them upstairs to bedrooms. Presently we three sat alone in the long bare room.
"Shall we wait for her?" I asked. "Haven't we had enough of her?"
Fred laughed. "She can scarcely cut the throats of all three of us!"
"I said we'd never hear the last of it!" said Will, with a scowl at me.
"Shall we wait for her?" I repeated.