"One gets tired of these everlasting things," mused Nicky wearily. "I'll just peck at one or two. You can fetch the soup, waiter: we shall be ready for it immediately."
"Thick or clear soup, madam?"
"We'll have thick to begin with, please: then clear," replied Nicky calmly. "Stiffy, I will take an anchovy."
The waiter was not more than two minutes absent, but ere he returned a lightning transformation scene had been enacted.
Certainly the Briton, with all his faults, surpasses the foreigner in the control of the emotions. What a Gaul or a Teuton would have done on witnessing the sight which met the eyes of the imperturbable Ganymede of the Restaurant International when he returned with the thick soup, it is difficult to say. The first would probably have wept, the second have sent for a policeman. For lo! the richly dight hors d'œuvres tray had become a solitude—the component parts thereof were duly discovered by the charwoman next morning amid the foliage of an adjacent palm—and the tail of the last radish was disappearing into Stiffy's mouth. Stiffy, once roused, made an excellent accomplice, though he had no initiative of his own.
The waiter's face twitched ever so slightly, and there was an undulating movement in the region of his scarlet waistcoat. But he recovered himself in time, and having served the thick soup, departed unbidden in search of the clear.
"Nicky," said Stiffy in a concerned voice, "are we really going to have everything on the menu?"
"You are, my son," replied Nicky. "I, being a lady, will make use of this palm-tub."
The waiter brought the clear soup, and asked for instructions with regard to the fish.
"What sort of fish have you?"