Martin also reflected that in her litany of woe she had omitted all reference to the medical student now in the arms of his ridiculous mother. He began to feel mildly jealous of this Camille Fargot, who assumed the shadow shape of a malignant influence. Yet she did not appear to be the young woman to tolerate aggressive folly on the part of a commonplace young man. Fortinbras himself had called her Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons. He was puzzled.
“What you say is very comforting and exhilarating, Fortinbras,” remarked Corinna, “but can’t you let me have something practical?”
“All in good time, my dear,” replied Fortinbras serenely. “I have no quack nostrums to hand over at a minute’s notice. Auguste——” he summoned the waiter and addressed him in fluent French, marred by a Britannic accent: “Give me another glass of this obscene though harmless beverage and satisfy the needs of Monsieur and Mademoiselle, and after that leave us in peace, and if any one seeks to penetrate into this salle à manger, say that it is engaged by a Lodge of Freemasons. Here is remuneration for your prospective zeal.”
With impressive flourish he deposited fifteen centimes in the palm of Auguste, who bowed politely.
“Merci, m’sieu,” said he. “Et monsieur, dame——?”
He looked enquiringly at Martin and Martin looked enquiringly at Corinna.
“I’m going to blow twenty pounds,” she replied. “I’ll have a kummel glacé.”
“And I’ll have the same,” said Martin, “though I don’t in the least know what it is.”
The waiter retired. Corinna leaned across the table.
“You’re thirty years of age and you’ve lived ten years in London and have never seen kummel served with crushed ice and straws?”