A voice in the distance repeated:
"Two 'bocks,' instead of four."
Another voice, more distant still, shouted out:
"Here they are, sir, here they are."
Immediately there appeared a man with a white apron, carrying two 'bocks,' which he set down foaming on the table, the foam running over the edge, on to the sandy floor.
Des Barrets emptied his glass at a single draught and replaced it on the table, sucking in the drops of beer that had been left on his mustache. He next asked:
"What is there new?"
"I know of nothing new, worth mentioning, really," I stammered: "But nothing has grown old for me; I am a commercial man."
In an equable tone of voice, he said:
"Indeed—does that amuse you?"