"The fish is an argument," my companion replied.
Suddenly he became silent. The door had opened. A white Targa entered. The diners stopped talking.
The veiled man walked slowly toward Morhange and touched his right arm.
"Very well," said Morhange.
He got up and followed the messenger.
The pitcher of Ahaggar, 1879, stood between me and Count Bielowsky. I filled my goblet—a goblet which held a pint, and gulped it down.
The Hetman looked at me sympathetically.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Le Mesge, nudging me with his elbow. "Antinea has respect for the hierarchic order."
The Reverend Spardek smiled modestly.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Le Mesge again.