“Batti, batti! I presto ravioli hollandaise,” cried one of the disputing waiters at his back—or to Bruce Carmyle's prejudiced hearing it sounded like that.
“La Donna e mobile spaghetti napoli Tettrazina,” rejoined the second waiter with spirit.
“... you have made me so...”
“Infanta Isabella lope de Vegas mulligatawny Toronto,” said the first waiter, weak but coming back pluckily.
“... so happy...”
“Funiculi funicula Vincente y Blasco Ibanez vermicelli sul campo della gloria risotto!” said the second waiter clinchingly, and scored a technical knockout.
Bruce Carmyle gave it up, and lit a moody cigarette. He was oppressed by that feeling which so many of us have felt in our time, that it was all wrong.
The music stopped. The two leading citizens of Little Italy vanished and went their way, probably to start a vendetta. There followed comparative calm. But Bruce Carmyle's emotions, like sweet bells jangled, were out of tune, and he could not recapture the first fine careless rapture. He found nothing within him but small-talk.
“What has become of your party?” he asked.
“My party?”