She smiled and murmured, “Oh, no!” but her hand dropped into his and tightened convulsively.
“To the table!” shouted Fallowby, and uttered a joyous whoop.
“Take it easy,” observed Thorne, with a remnant of manners; “you are not the host, you know.”
Marie Guernalec, who had been chattering with Colette, jumped up and took Thorne’s arm and Monsieur Guernalec drew Odile’s arm through his.
Trent, bowing gravely, offered his own arm to Colette, West took in Sylvia, and Fallowby hovered anxiously in the rear.
“You march around the table three times singing the Marseillaise,” explained Sylvia, “and Monsieur Fallowby pounds on the table and beats time.”
Fallowby suggested that they could sing after dinner, but his protest was drowned in the ringing chorus—
“Aux armes! Formez vos bataillons!”
Around the room they marched singing,
“Marchons! Marchons!”
with all their might, while Fallowby with very bad grace, hammered on the table, consoling himself a little with the hope that the exercise would increase his appetite. Hercules, the black and tan, fled under the bed, from which retreat he yapped and whined until dragged out by Guernalec and placed in Odile’s lap.
“And now,” said Trent gravely, when everybody was seated, “listen!” and he read the menu.