"And recollect," Peter insisted, "I bar Chinatown. We've both of us seen the real thing, and there's nothing real about what they show you here."
"Chinatown is erased from our programme," Sogrange agreed. "We go now to dine. Remind me, Baron, that I inquire for these strange dishes of which one hears—terrapin, canvas-backed duck, green corn, and strawberry shortcake."
Peter smiled grimly.
"How like a Frenchman," he exclaimed, "to take no account of seasons! Never mind, Marquis, you shall give your order and I will sketch the waiter's face. By the by, if you're in earnest about this expedition to-night, put your revolver into your pocket."
"But we're going with an ex-detective," Sogrange replied.
"One never knows," Peter said carelessly.
They dined close to the stone palisading of one of New York's most famous roof gardens. Sogrange ordered an immense dinner, but spent most of his time gazing downwards. They were higher up than at the hotel, and they could see across the tangled maze of lights even to the river, across which the great ferry boats were speeding all the while—huge creatures of streaming fire and whistling sirens. The air where they sat was pure and crisp. There was no fog, no smoke, to cloud the almost crystalline clearness of the night.
"Baron," Sogrange declared, "if I had lived in this city I should have been a different man. No wonder the people are all-conquering."
"Too much electricity in the air for me," Peter answered. "I like a little repose. I can't think where these people find it."
"One hopes," Sogrange murmured, "that before they progress any further in utilitarianism they will find some artist, one of themselves, to express all this."