Number One chauffeur, smelling strongly of the good red wine of Provence, came forward and offered me his arm.
This was too much.
"Please don't!" I stammered, in my confusion speaking English.
"Ah, Mademoiselle est Anglaise!" the two others exclaimed, "Vive l'entente cordiale! We are Frenchmen. You are Italian. She belongs to our side."
"Let her choose," said the handsome Italian, pointing his moustache and doing such execution upon me with his splendid eyes, that if they'd been Maxim guns I should have fallen riddled with bullets.
"I 'll sit by nobody," I managed to answer, this time in French. "Please take your seats. I will have a chair at the other end of the table."
"You see, mademoiselle is too polite to choose between us. She 's afraid of a duel," laughed good-looking Number One. "I tell you what we must do. We 'll draw lots for her. Three pellets of bread. The biggest wins."
"Beg your pardon, monsieur," remarked Mr. Dane, whom I had n't seen as he opened the door, "mademoiselle is of my party. She is waiting for me."
His voice was perfectly calm, even polite, but as I whirled round and looked at him, fearing a scene, I saw that his eyes were rather dangerous. He looked like a dog who says, as plainly as a dog can speak, "I 'm a good fellow, and I 'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. But put that bone down, or I bite."
The Italian dropped the bone (I don't mind the simile)
