De Bosky's face cleared. He addressed himself to Jane; it was quite safe to speak to her in French. He forgot himself in his eagerness, however, and spoke with amazing fluency for one who but a moment before had been so at a loss. In a few quick, concise sentences he told her of Stuyvesant's presence, his condition and his immediate designs.
Both Jane and the Marchioness were equal to the occasion. Although filled with consternation, they succeeded admirably in concealing their dismay behind a mask of smiles and a gay sort of chatter. De Bosky beamed and smirked and gesticulated. One would have thought he was regaling them with an amusing story.
"He is capable of making a horrid scene," lamented Jane, through smiling lips. "He may come over to this table and—"
"Compose yourself," broke in de Bosky, a smile on his lips but not in his eyes. "If he should attempt to annoy you here, I—I myself will take him in hand. Have no fear. You may depend on me."
He was interrupted at this juncture by a brass-but-toned page who passed the table, murmuring the name of Mrs. Sparflight.
Spangler's is an exceptional place. Pages do not bawl out one's name as if calling an "extra." On the contrary, in quiet, repressed tones they politely inquire at each table for the person wanted. Mr. Spangler was very particular about this. He came near to losing his license years before simply because a page had meandered through the restaurant bellowing the name of a gentleman whose influence was greater at City Hall than it was at his own fireside,—from which, by the way,
