"But I have a stomach, petit Anglais, and it cries aloud for sustenance."
"I weep for you," said Philip. "Why do I waste my poetic gems upon you?"
Saint-Dantin took him by the elbow and led him to the door.
"Parbleu, Philippe, it's what we wish to know. You shall expound to us at dinner."
Midway through the meal the Vicomte remembered something. He nodded across the table to Philip, who was engaged in a lively and witty argument with De Bergeret.
"A propos, Philippe. Your so dear friend has been talking about you!"
"Which so dear friend?" asked Philip. "Jules, if you maintain in the face of my exposition that Jeanne de Fontenay can rival la Salévier in the matter of—"
"But attend!" insisted the Vicomte. "The Englishman—the Bancroft—peste, what a name for my tongue!"
Philip broke off in the middle of his discourse. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight.