“I see, young gentleman,” said he, evidently nettled at my inattention, “your thoughts are not with me.”
“How long have we to stay, sir?” said I, reverting to the respect I tendered him at my lessons.
“You have thirty-eight minutes,” said he, examining his watch: “which I purpose to apportion in this wise,—eight for the douceur, five for the cheese, fifteen for the dessert, five for coffee and a glass of curaçoa. The bill and our parting compliments will take the rest, giving us three minutes to walk across to the station.”
These sort of pedantries were a passion with him, and I did not interpose a word as he spoke.
“What a pineapple!” cried a young fellow from an adjoining table, as a waiter deposited a magnificent pine in the midst of the bouquet that adorned our table.
“Monsieur Delorme begs to say, sir, this has just arrived from Laeken.”
“Don't you know who that is?” said a companion, in a low voice; but my hearing, ever acute, caught the words, “He's that boy of Norcott's.” I started as if I had received a blow. It was time to resent these insolences, and make an end of them forever.
“You heard what that man yonder has called me?” said I to Eccles.
“No; I was not minding him.”
“The old impertinence,—'That boy of Norcott's.'”