' Then she receive your message. She don't know where to
reach you. She can do nossing. She is desolated! She mus' fly to the
train. She is ver' sorry. She hope that maybe the gentlemans will be in
Baltimore nex' week? Yes?"
"You mean she can't come to-night?"
"Yes, monsieur. She cannot. She are fill with regret. She--"
"Perhaps," said my companion, recovering, "we can drive her to the
train?"
The maid, however, did not seem to wish to discuss this point. She shook
her head and said:
"Madame ver' sorry she cannot come."
"But I say," repeated my companion, "that we shall be delighted to drive
her to the train if she wishes."
"She ver' sorry," persisted the maid negatively.
"Oh, I see," he said. "Very well. Please say to her that we are sorry,
too."
"Yes, monsieur." The maid retired.
"I want something to eat," I remarked as we passed down the long
furniture-piled passage leading to the street.
"So do I. We have that table at Harvey's."
"I know; but--"
"That's a fact," he put in. "I mentioned her name. We can't very well go
there without her."
"And all dressed up like a pair of goats."
"No."
"There's always the hotel."
"I don't want to go back there--not now."
"Neither do I. Let's make it the Shoreham," I suggested as we emerged
upon the street.
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