trembled. Then he went down into the restaurant scowling, and was
ungracious to the polite and conciliating waiters, ordering his food
and a bottle of claret as if they had done him an injury.
"_Anglais_," they said to one another behind the serving-screen,
pointing their thumbs at him--"he pay but he damn."

Then Paul sent for the _New York Herald_ and propped it up in
front of him, prodding at some olives with his fork, one occasionally
reaching his mouth, while he read, and awaited his soup.

The table next to him in this quiet corner was laid for one, and had a
bunch of roses in the centre, just two or three exquisite blooms that
he was familiar with the appearance of in the Paris shops. Nearly all
the other tables were empty or emptying; he had dined very late. Who
could want roses eating alone? The _menu_, too, was written out
and ready, and an expression of expectancy lightened the face of the
head waiter--who himself brought a bottle of most carefully decanted
red wine, feeling the temperature through the fine glass with the air
of a great connoisseur.

"One of those over-fed foreign brutes of no sex, I suppose," Paul said
to himself, and turned to the sporting notes in front of him.

He did not look up again until he heard the rustle of a dress.

The woman had to pass him--even so close that the heavy silk touched
his foot. He fancied he smelt tuberoses, but it was not until she sat
down, and he again looked at her, that he perceived a knot of them
tucked into the front of her bodice.