Stuart. Coined for the occasion, and needing only the approval of your majesty to make it gold in my eyes.
[Bows.
Mrs. V. T. I am too good a queen to help stamp worthless money, and that’s what a compliment is. As the French say, “Fine words cost nothing and are worth just what they cost.”
Stuart. Anglisé in “Fine words butter no parsnips.” You know, I’ve always wanted to send that proverb to Delmonico. He takes something uneatable, and by giving it a sauce and a high-sounding French title, deludes the public into ordering it. You pay five cents for the basis, ten for the sauce, and the other thirty-five for the French, which no man can understand or pronounce.
Mrs. V. T. He didn’t serve this evening’s dinner.
Stuart. Far be it from me to suggest that there was anything wrong in the cuisine to-night. The only criticism I could possibly make on the dinner was that there were twenty-four too many people.
Mrs. V. T. (counting on fingers). Twenty-four from twenty-six—that leaves two?
Stuart. Let me congratulate you on your mental arithmetic.
Mrs. V. T. Have you actually reached that time of life when one ceases to enjoy dinners?
Stuart. I hope not. I was even flattering myself that my tastes were becoming more juvenile.