“Push away a dinner cooked by Anatole?”
“Yes.”
“Push it away untasted?”
“Yes.”
“Let us get this straight. Tonight, at dinner, when the butler offers me a ris de veau à la financiere, or whatever it may be, hot from Anatole’s hands, you wish me to push it away untasted?”
“Yes.”
He chewed his lip. One could sense the struggle going on within. And then suddenly a sort of glow came into his face. The old martyrs probably used to look like that.
“All right.”
“You’ll do it?”
“I will.”