Once she raises them, and follows ARNAUD's dark
rapid figure.
ARNAUD. [Returning] Madame feels the 'eat? [He scans her with
increased curiosity] You wish something, Madame?
CLARE. [Again giving him that look] Must I order?
ARNAUD. Non, Madame, it is not necessary. A glass of water. [He
pours it out] I have not the pleasure of knowing Madame's face.
CLARE. [Faintly smiling] No.
ARNAUD. Madame will find it veree good 'ere, veree quiet.
LANGUID VOICE. Waiter!
ARNAUD. Pardon! [He goes]
The bare-necked ladies with large hats again pass down the
corridor outside, and again their voices are wafted in: "Tottie!
Not she! Oh! my goodness, she has got a pride on her!"
"Bobbie'll never stick it!" "Look here, dear----" Galvanized
by those sounds, CLARE has caught her cloak and half-risen; they
die away and she subsides.
ARNAUD. [Back at her table, with a quaint shrug towards the
corridor] It is not rowdy here, Madame, as a rule--not as in some
places. To-night a little noise. Madame is fond of flowers? [He
whisks out, and returns almost at once with a bowl of carnations from
some table in the next room] These smell good!
CLARE. You are very kind.
ARNAUD. [With courtesy] Not at all, Madame; a pleasure. [He bows]
A young man, tall, thin, hard, straight, with close-cropped,
sandyish hair and moustache, a face tanned very red, and one of
those small, long, lean heads that only grow in Britain; clad in
a thin dark overcoat thrown open, an opera hat pushed back, a
white waistcoat round his lean middle, he comes in from the
corridor.
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