"And now, Teddy, my lad," he said suddenly to me, to my intense surprise, calling me by my nickname in this unexpected way, "we'll go out, get something to eat, and see the town."
I looked at Knowlton, and his expression denoted approval. I fetched my hat and the two of us sallied forth. Don Quixote and Sancho were not a more ill-assorted couple, and it was not strange that men turned to stare at us in the street.
"You are French, I believe," I said at last in a desperate effort to start conversation. I didn't believe it, but I wanted to know what he would say. His answer was astounding.
"I am a descendant of Charles Martel," he announced as if he were stating the most ordinary fact. I let the statement pass in silence.
"Are you leading me to the best restaurant in town?" he queried a block further on.
"If you wish," I replied. "The best restaurant in town is a relative question. We'll try the so-called grill room at the Otooska House."
Our entrance together was easily the event of the evening. Prospero demanded a table like an emperor issuing a proclamation. Waiters came upon the run from every nook and cranny and crowded tables upon us. He was content to sit at the most conspicuous. To one waiter he handed his hat, to another his stick, to a third, his gloves, and bade a fourth "Divest my friend of his paraphernalia." There was a distinct touch of Wilkins Micawber in his make-up, I decided; still, one must expect that of a present-day relative of Charles Martel.
"Stout and oysters for two," he commanded. "I have ventured to order stout and oysters in compliment to you," he explained. "The combination is new to me, but I have read about it in Charles Dickens' novels."
"We are rather inland for oysters," I said. "They have an indecent habit here of serving them nude on a plate—without their shell, I mean," I added, as Prospero frowned questioningly.
"You are a chemist, Edward? Am I right?" Prospero's questions sounded like those of Rhadamanthus.