Four little Darties were now a sort of
perpetual insurance.
The feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet. This
delectable fish, brought from a considerable distance in a state of
almost perfect preservation, was first fried, then boned, then served in
ice, with Madeira punch in place of sauce, according to a recipe known
to a few men of the world.
Nothing else calls for remark except the payment of the bill by Dartie.
He had made himself extremely agreeable throughout the meal; his bold,
admiring stare seldom abandoning Irene's face and figure. As he was
obliged to confess to himself, he got no change out of her--she was cool
enough, as cool as her shoulders looked under their veil of creamy lace.
He expected to have caught her out in some little game with Bosinney;
but not a bit of it, she kept up her end remarkably well. As for that
architect chap, he was as glum as a bear with a sore head--Winifred
could barely get a word out of him; he ate nothing, but he certainly
took his liquor, and his face kept getting whiter, and his eyes looked
queer.
It was all very amusing.
For Dartie himself was in capital form, and talked freely, with a
certain poignancy, being no fool. He told two or three stories verging
on the improper, a concession to the company, for his stories were not
used to verging.
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