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Updated: May 27, 2025
When she drove up, he was ready in the doorway, his thin brown face with its keen, half-veiled eyes the picture of composure, but feeling at heart like a schoolboy off for an exeat. How pretty she was looking though pale from London her dark eyes, her smile! And stepping quickly to the cab, he said: "No; I'm getting in dining at Blafard's, Gyp a night out!"
I'm sorry to say there's no doubt about it; your son has been seen dining at perhaps I ought not to mention the name Blafard's, with Mrs. Bellew. I dare say you don't know what sort of a place Blafard's is a lot of little rooms where people go when they don't want to be seen. I've never been there, of course; but I can imagine it perfectly. And not once, but frequently.
At Blafard's the tall dark young waiter took her cloak with reverential fingers; the little wine-waiter smiled below the suffering in his eyes. The same red-shaded lights fell on her arms and shoulders, the same flowers of green and yellow grew bravely in the same blue vases. On the menu were written the same dishes.
He received the news that his daughter was alone and free from that fellow with something like delight. Where should he dine her? Mrs. Markey was on her holiday. Why not Blafard's? Quiet -small rooms not too respectable quite fairly cool good things to eat. Yes; Blafard's!
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