"Hello, boys," said Herbert. "The girls have been telling us—Mrs. Gibbons and I want you to have dinner with us here first so we can talk over the party."
"Sure," said John. "We have tickets for Chantecler."
We sat down and tackled coquilles Saint-Jacques.
"You don't want to get in any trouble over this game," Herbert went on. "Not speaking French and all that...."
"That's so, too," said Joe.
"Chantecler is fine and dandy," said Herbert. "If you want supper afterwards, here's the address of a nice little café."
"Sunday school picnic," moaned Esther.
"Esther's inconsolable. She thinks I'm spoiling the fun. But these boys don't want to get into a doubtful little hole. You don't know what you're doing, Esther," said Herbert.
"I'm as old as your wife, so there."
"You fellows do not want to spend a terrible lot of money. I know you don't. Esther is mad as a hornet at me because I am going to squelch her idea of going to Montmartre or Les Halles for a hot old time. I don't want to seem a poor sport, but you know some of those cafés are fakes, others are what I shall not mention, and there is a third category of really dangerous ones. The entire business is carried on to catch and mulct tourists. If you happen to drift into the fake places, nothing more serious would happen than getting stuck good and hard. You would simply have to pay the waiter whatever was on the bill. If you were considerably older and knew how to speak French, the slumming might prove interesting—for one evening. But for you the game is not worth the candle. I don't mind your going for a jaunt along the boulevards, and I can tell you some of the cafés that are all right. But as for Les Halles—that doesn't go."