“To dinner,” said Temple.
“I suppose we have seen the last leg of mutton we are to meet with till he goes,” cried Jack: “that precious French fellow will now give his genius full play, and we 'll have to dine off 'salmis' and 'suprêmes,' or make our dinner off bread-and-cheese.”
“Perhaps you would initiate Bertond into the mystery of a sea-pie, Jack,” said Temple, with a smile.
“And a precious mess the fellow would make of it! He'd fill it with cocks' combs and mushrooms, and stick two skewers in it with a half-boiled truffle on each—lucky if there would n't be a British flag in spun sugar between them; and he 'd call the abomination 'pâté à la gun-room,' or some such confounded name.”
A low, quiet laugh was now heard from the end of the table, and the company remembered, apparently for the first time, that Mr. Harding, the agent, was there, and very busily engaged with a broiled chicken.
“Ain't I right, Mr. Harding?” cried Jack, as he heard the low chuckle of the small, meek, submissive-looking little man, at the other end of the table.
“Ain't I right?”
“I have met with very good French versions of English cookery abroad, Captain Bramleigh.”
“Don't call me 'captain' or I 'll suspect your accuracy about the cookery,” interrupted Jack. “I fear I 'm about as far off that rank as Bertond is from the sea-pie.”
“Do you know Cutbill, Harding?” said Augustus, addressing the agent in the tone of an heir expectant.