"Cutlets ha la ravigotte or 'ommard ha lamerican, Sir Antony?" the voice of the first footman sounded in our ears.
"Oh—er—get me a little Irish stew or some cold beef," said Antony, plaintively, still with the menu in his hand.
"We've no—Irish stew—except what is prepared for the beaters, Sir Antony," said James, apologetically. He had come from a ducal house and knew the world. "Shall I get you some of that, Sir Antony?"
"No, don't mind." Then, turning to me, "What are you eating,
Comtesse?" he asked. "I will have some of that."
"It is truffled partridge in aspic," I said, disagreeably. "You can pick out the truffles if you are afraid of them."
"Truffled partridge, then," he said to James, resignedly, and when it came he deliberately ate the truffles first.
"Hock, claret, Burgundy, or champagne, Sir Antony?" demanded the butler.
"Oh—er—I will have the whole four!"
His face had the most comical expression of chastened resignation as he glanced at me.
Griggson poured out bumpers in the four glasses.