"All right, then; stick down sardines: we've got a tin. Now potage--why the dickens don't you put it in English, khansaman?"
"The English tongue, sir, is great and glorious instrument, but too gross for refinements of culinary art. Soup!--listen to it--soup! disgusting monosyllable, sir, resembling hiccough. Contrast with the delicate vocables of French."
"Well, what shall the potage be?"
"Clear, sir, for the ladies, consommé à la Wanderobbo."
"What on earth is that?"
"I beg you, sir, not to insist on answer," said the Bengali gravely. "Thick, for masculine gender: Scotch broth, concession to prejudices of great nation."
"That's all right. What's next? Poissons! That looks fishy. Take care you don't drop an s. What fish can we do?"
"Coja hooked quantity of finny tribe which, with due sauce, may pass for trout."
"Now for entrées."
"The partridges you shot yesterday, sir, are in prime condition. I suggest perdrix à la Swahili. For relevé I propose----"