“More likely old Heinz stopped to have a drink,” said Henslowe. “Let's have some hors d'oeuvre while we are waiting.”
The waitress brought a collection of boat-shaped plates of red salads and yellow salads and green salads and two little wooden tubs with herrings and anchovies.
Henslowe stopped her as she was going, saying: “Rien de plus?”
The waitress contemplated the array with a tragic air, her arms folded over her ample bosom. “Que voulez-vous, Monsieur, c'est l'armistice.”
“The greatest fake about all this war business is the peace. I tell you, not till the hors d'oeuvre has been restored to its proper abundance and variety will I admit that the war's over.”
The waitress tittered.
“Things aren't what they used to be,” she said, going back to the kitchen.
Heineman burst into the restaurant at that moment, slamming the door behind him so that the glass rang, and the fat woman and the hairy man started violently in their chairs. He tumbled into a place, grinning broadly.
“And what have you done to Walters?”
Heineman wiped his glasses meticulously.