Ransom

WARING WAS BORED. The pretty dancer who had, without so much as a by-your-leave, dropped into the chair opposite him, yawned flagrantly in his face.
"M'sieur should have brought his breviary," she said.
"Eh?" Waring started; his eyes twinkled, and he smiled at the dancer. "Mademoiselle will honour me by drinking another glass of wine?"
The little dancer arose from her chair; she shook her scant skirt about her trim legs.
"Zut! M'sieur is as entertaining as a saint's confession!" She shrugged her bare shoulders; a man at the next table eyed her, and she smiled provocatively; Waring watched them glide off together, unresentful at the impertinent moue she made at him over her new-found partner's shoulder. Then he forgot all about her. He sipped his wine, looking about him with vague eyes. It was the usual sort of thing in this sort of place. The same sort of thing that might be found in any of a dozen Montmartre cafes at this hour— midnight. Officers home on leave, bright-eyed Parisiennes, a sprinkling of Russians, English and Americans. It was quieter than before the Great War, and there was less extravagance.