"I'm glad it's shorter," said Berry. "I want to get to Angoulême in good time."
"Why?" said Jill.
Berry eyed her reproachfully.
"Child," he said, "is your gratitude so short-lived? Have you in six slight months forgotten that at Angoulême we were given the very finest dinner that ever we ate? A meal without frills—nine tender courses long? For which we paid the equivalent of rather less than five shillings a head?"
"Oh, I remember," said Jill. "That was where they made us use the same knife all through dinner."
"And what," demanded Berry, "of that? A conceit—a charming conceit. Thus was the glorious tradition of one course handed down to those that followed after. I tell you, that for me the idea of another 'crowded hour' in Angoulême goes far to ameliorate the unpleasant prospect of erupting into the middle of an English spring."
"It's clear," said I, "that you should do a gastronomic tour. Every department of France has its particular dainty. With a reliable list, an almanac, and a motor ambulance, you could do wonders."
My brother-in-law groaned.
"It wouldn't work," he said miserably. "It wouldn't work. They'd clash. When you were in Picardy, considering some pâtés de Canards, you'd get a wire from Savoy saying that the salmon trout were in the pink, and on the way there you'd get another from Gascony to say that in twenty-four hours they wouldn't answer for the flavour of the ortolans."
"Talking of gluttony," said Jonah, "if they don't bring lunch pretty soon, we shall be late. It's past one now, and the meeting's the other side of Morlaas. First race, two-fifteen."