"Madame is pleased?" Monsieur Auguste handed the Wine Carte to McTaggart, the page carelessly opened where the list of champagnes began. With a long nail cut into a point he underlined a special brand. "Madame would like this," he said, "not too dry, a good vintage."
But "Madame" was not of his opinion. With all her artistic little soul she revelled in the atmosphere, recognizing the bourgeois note—"Red wine, n'est ce pas, Pierrot?—something that sings aloud of France."
And, suddenly, before her eyes, the scene blurred and, in its place, memory tricked her. She was back in a smoke-wreathed cabaret at Montmartre. She could hear the merry chorus rise and see Bruant, with his shaggy mane, roaring out the "Song of the Grape"; while by her side, his arm about her, was the one man she had really loved.
Ah! those days ... She caught her breath and was conscious again of Auguste's stare.
He studied the white, piquante face and wondered if he had made a mistake. But he added a new shade of respect to his suave acknowledgment of her order. Not many ladies with such red lips, combined with a costume of faultless cut, carelessly dismissed champagne. He bowed himself away from her, and sent the pair his best waiter.
"I'm glad you approve of the little place." McTaggart took on an explorer's pride. "I found it by the merest chance and since then have come often. The food's not bad—well, you'll see for yourself!—and it always comes in piping hot. Now, what shall we have?" He gathered up the big card with its printed list.
"Petite Marmite,—d'you agree to that? and fish—you choose——" he handed it over.
"Skate," she said decidedly—"with 'black butter'" (she translated). "It sounds vile in English, somehow—what a difference language makes to things. Listen, now—'Raie au beurre noir'—Isn't there a charm about it?—and ... 'Veal Schnitzel' ... and 'Petits Pois'—Yes, I know they're tinned——" she forestalled his objection—"but with plenty of butter and well cooked...." she flashed an expressive little gesture.
"What potatoes?" McTaggart asked.
"Fi donc!" She smiled indulgently—"a boiled potato for you, mon cher—the hall-mark of the English 'home.' And cabbage, perhaps, to make you happy!"