Madame Barbançon had just removed the fowl almost untouched, and as she placed the snow custard on the table, she muttered between her teeth:
"They'll clean this dish sure. One doesn't have to be hungry to eat this. It is the very food for lovers."
"The devil! Mother Barbançon," said the commander, gaily, "here's a dish that reminds me of the snow-banks of Newfoundland. What a pity it is that none of us are the least bit hungry!"
"It is, indeed, for Madame Barbançon has proved herself to be a veritable cordon bleu to-day," remarked Gerald.
"It is the finest snow custard that was ever concocted," added Olivier. "We can at least devour it with our eyes."
The housekeeper, who could not believe that she was to be subjected to this last cruel affront, said, in constrained tones:
"You gentlemen must be jesting."
"Jesting about such a sacred thing as your snow custard, Mother Barbançon? The devil take me if I should dare to be as sacrilegious as all that," said the commander. "But as we're not in the least hungry, it is impossible for us to taste your chef-d'œuvre."
"Yes, absolutely impossible," repeated the two young men.
The housekeeper did not utter a word, but a sudden contraction of her features betrayed the violence of her resentment plainly enough.