"Crême d'asperges à la reine," murmured Le Brux. "Friend, is it not a source of regret that with the exception of the swallows'-nest extravaganza and your American essence of turtle, no soup has yet been invented the price of which is not within the reach of the common herd? I predict that even this dream of a master will become a commonplace within a generation."
"I am sorry," said Leighton, "that the boy can't understand you. Your remark caps an argument I had with him the other day on the evanescent spirit in art."
The fish arrived.
"The only fish," remarked Leighton, "that can properly be served without a sauce."
"And why?" said Le Brux, helping himself to the young trout fried in olive oil and simply garnished with lemon. "I will tell thee. Because God himself hath half prepared the dish, giving to this dainty creature a fragrance which assails the senses of man and adds to eating a vision of purling brooks and overhanging boughs." Suddenly, with his fork half-way to his mouth, he paused, and glared at Lewis, who was on the point of helping himself. "Sacrilège!"
Leighton looked up.
"My old one, you are perhaps right." He turned to Lewis. "Better skip the fish." At the next dish he remarked, "Following the theory that a dinner should progress as a child learning to walk, Maître, I have at this point dared to introduce an entremets—cèpes francs à la tête noire——"
"À la bordelaise," completed Le Brux, his nose above the dish. He helped Leighton to half of its contents and himself to the rest.
"Have patience, my old one," cried Leighton, "the boy may have an uneducated palate, but he is none the less possessed of a sublobular void that demands filling at stated intervals."
"Bah!" cried Le Brux, "order him a dish of tripe with onions—and vin ordinaire. But he'll have to sit at another table."