But all the merriment had fled from the dark eyes of St. Jacques.
“Perhaps,” he assented gravely. “But a true Frenchman often smiles most gayly when he has been hardest hit.” And, cap in hand, he stood aside to let Nancy pass in before him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
International complications had arisen at the supper table. Confronted by an English menu, the four elderly Frenchmen had held a hasty consultation over a new item which had appeared thereon. Their minds were strictly logical; they had come to the conclusion that sweetbreads were a species of cake, and they had ordered accordingly.
“Mais oui,” one of them observed, as he gravely prodded the resultant tidbit with his knife and fork. “Vat ees eet?”
“Them’s the sweetbreads,” responded the waitress, who was an Hibernian and scanty of grammar.
There followed an anxious pause, while four prodding forks worked in unison.
“Huitres?” suggested one Frenchman.
“Côtelettes?” added the second.
“C’est bon,” said the third, more daring than his companions.