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!”

“Aux armes! Formez vos bataillons!”

Around the room they marched singing,