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But I am going to get up now. Where have you been since dèjeuner? I missed you." Dinah clung closer, hiding her face. Instantly Isabel's arms tightened. The passionate tenderness of them thrilled her through and through. "Why, child, what has happened?" she whispered. "Tell me! Tell me!" But Dinah only hid her face a little deeper. "I don't know how," she murmured. There fell a silence.
Although some of the staff had donned the new French uniform of grey-blue, the general wore the old uniform, navy-blue, the only thing denoting his rank being the three dull steel stars on the embroidered sleeve of his tunic. There was little ceremony at the meal. The staff remained standing until General Foch and I were seated. Then they all sat down and déjeuner was immediately served.
He had just finished his déjeuner, plunging a Russian enamelled silver spoon into his egg, his tea smoking at his side in a burnished silver teapot with Japanese designs, when, notwithstanding his orders, the servant handed him a card written in pencil on a scrap of paper torn from a note-book. "It is not a borrower, monsieur!"
After a stroll around Monty, a cigarette on the terrace before the Casino, where the gay world was sunning itself beside the sapphire sea, prior to the opening of the Rooms, and a cocktail at my friend Ciro's, I took my déjeuner at the Palmiers, a small and unpretentious hotel in the back of the town, where I was well known, and where one gets a very good lunch vin compris for three francs.
When, however, I descended from my bedroom at 7.45, after partaking of a delicious petit déjeuner of coffee, milk, bread, and fruit in my apartment, I found Don Juan d'Alta ready for the road, and the motor at the door. In five minutes St. Nivel joined us. "I didn't like to be left behind, old sportsman," he exclaimed.
There they sat, each on his side of the desk; they spoke only the most indispensable words; now and then a paper passed from hand to hand, but they never looked each other in the face. In this way they both worked each more busily than the other until twelve o'clock, their usual luncheon-time. This hour of dejeuner was the favorite time of both.
Beale rose suddenly before her. She rose before her, for that matter, now, and even while their refreshment delayed Maisie arrived at the straight question for which, on their entrance, his first word had given opportunity. "Are we going to have déjeuner with Mrs. Beale?" His reply was anything but straight. "You and I?" Maisie sat back in her chair. "Mrs. Wix and me." Sir Claude also shifted.
"Not Captain Berselius?" asked Stenhouse, stopping dead. "Yes, Captain Berselius, of No. 14 Avenue Malakoff. I have just returned from having déjeuner with him." Stenhouse whistled. They were in the Rue du Mont Thabor by this, in front of a small café. "Well," said Adams, "what's wrong?" "Everything," replied the other. "This is the house where my patient lives.
It made me laugh again, upon which she changed the subject. "An indefinable something tells me," she announced coldly, "that henceforth you needn't be so DRASTICALLY fearful of being dragged to the chateau for dinner, nor dejeuner either!" "Did anything ever tell you that I had cause to fear it?" "Yes," she said, but too simply. "Jean Ferret."
How often, when the farmer Louis had secreted himself in a grove for the sake of reading, how often was he discovered there by the queen, torn away from his book and drawn to a dejeuner on the grass!
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