What Donovan thought he could not say, but he almost hated him for the ease with which he kept pace with their companions.
They ordered dinner, and the great dish of _hors d'oeuvres_ was brought round by a waiter who seemed to preside over it with a fatherly solicitude.

Julie picked up an olive in her fingers, and found it so good that she grumbled at only having taken one.
"Have mine," said Donovan, shooting one on to her plate.
"Thanks," she said.

"Oh, heavens! I forgot that patch on my left cheek--or was it my right, Solomon?
Let's see." She dived into her pocket, and produced a tiny satin beaded box, "Isn't it chic ?" she demanded, leaning over to show Donovan.

"I got it in the Nouvelles Galleries the other day." She took off the lid, which revealed its reverse as a tiny mirror, and scrutinised herself, patting back a stray lock on her forehead.
"Oh, don't," said Donovan, and he slipped the hair out again with his finger.
"Be quiet; but I'll concede that.

This won't do, though." Out came a tiny powder-puff.