Though she could not
weaken my resolution, she made my beginning hard.
"We are going to have a discouraging meal," I gossiped
procrastinatingly. "But, since we are in France, it will be a little
less horrible than the usual dining-car. The wine is probably hopeless;
I suggest Evian or Vichy. These radishes look promising. Will you have
some?"
"No. I am not hungry," she repeated briefly. "Won't you please tell me
what you have to say?"
Though I didn't in the least want them, I ate a few of the radishes just
to show that I was not abashed by her haughty, reproachful air. Other
passengers were strolling in. Here was Mr. John Van Blarcom, who, at the
sight of Miss Falconer and myself to all appearances cozily established
for a tete-a-tete meal, stopped in his tracks and fastened on me the
hard, appraising scrutiny that a policeman might turn on a hitherto
respectable acquaintance discovered in converse with some notorious
crook. For an instant he seemed disposed to buttonhole me and
remonstrate. Then he shrugged his stocky shoulders, the gesture
indicating that one can't save a fool from his folly, and established
himself at a near-by table, from which coign of vantage he kept us under
steady watch.
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