“I made a mark on it last night, and look at it.”
“Monsieur made a mark, but he kept on drinking after that. At that rate Monsieur wastes his time in making marks.”
The waiter was a jovial fellow and knew Cronshaw intimately. Cronshaw gazed at him.
“If you give me your word of honour as a nobleman and a gentleman that nobody but I has been drinking my whiskey, I’ll accept your statement.”
This remark, translated literally into the crudest French, sounded very funny, and the lady at the comptoir could not help laughing.
“Il est impayable,” she murmured.
Cronshaw, hearing her, turned a sheepish eye upon her; she was stout, matronly, and middle-aged; and solemnly kissed his hand to her. She shrugged her shoulders.
“Fear not, madam,” he said heavily. “I have passed the age when I am tempted by forty-five and gratitude.”
He poured himself out some whiskey and water, and slowly drank it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“He talked very well.”