He was looking at the entrée with interest and a slight suspicion.
"What is this?"
"Curried chicken."
"Oh." He helped himself fastidiously to curried chicken, tasted it with delicate deliberation, and left it on his plate.
"You are wise," said he. "There is a certain crude, unsatisfying simplicity about this repast."
"Didn't I tell you?"
"You did."
"You see now why I said you'd better go to the Métropole?"
"I do indeed."
An admirable joint of mutton, cheese, coffee and a liqueur effaced the painful impression made by the entrée. By nine o'clock Marston declared himself inured to the hardships of the Cliff Hotel.