“Well, what do you think of Cæsar?”
“He’s a stunner, a jolly sight more sensible than you, Chris. But I say,” he added in a grumpy, husky voice, “is he always like that?” 155
“Like what?”
“On a sofa. Lying down.”
“Yes,” said Christopher shortly. He had become almost as sensitive on that point as Aymer himself.
“He must get a bit tired of it. Didn’t he ever walk?”
“Yes, of course. It was a shooting accident. Shut up, Sam, we all hate talking of it.”
The dinner that was served immediately somehow impressed Sam more than any other event of the day. He had occasionally had a meal in a restaurant with Christopher, and once had been in a dining-room at an hotel, but it all seemed different to this intimate, comfortable dinner. The white napery, the shining silver and delicate glass and china, the serving of the simple meal was a revelation of his friend’s life, for Christopher took it all as a matter of course and was unabashed by the presence of the second footman who waited on them.
There was soup, and cutlets in little paper dresses, tomatoes and potatoes that bore no resemblance to the grimy vegetables Sam dispensed daily. Then came strange bird-shaped things, about the size of sparrows which Christopher called chicken and which had no bones in them, cherry tart, with innumerable trifles with it, afterwards something that looked like a solid browny-yellow cake, which gave way to nothing when cut, and tasted of cheese. Finally there was fruit, that was a crowning point, for Sam knew what pears cost that time of year, and said so.
Christopher laughed. “These come from Marden,” he explained. “Marden’s noted for pears; they have storages of different temperatures and keep them back or ripen them as wanted. The fire’s jolly after all, isn’t it?”