"Marchons! Marchons!"
with all their might, while Fallowby with very bad grace, hammered on the table, consoling himself a little with the hope that the exercise would increase his appetite. Hercules, the black and tan, fled under the bed, from which retreat he yapped and whined until dragged out by Guernalec and placed in Odile's lap.
"And now," said Trent gravely, when everybody was seated, "listen!" and he read the menu.
| Beef Soup à la Siège de Paris. |
| — |
| Fish. |
| Sardines à la père Lachaise. |
| (White Wine). |
| — |
| Rôti (Red Wine). |
| Fresh Beef à la sortie. |
| — |
| Vegetables. |
| Canned Beans à la chasse-pot, |
| Canned Peas Gravelotte, |
| Potatoes Irlandaises, |
| Miscellaneous. |
| — |
| Cold Corned Beef à la Thieis, |
| Stewed Prunes à la Garibaldi. |
| — |
| Dessert. |
| Dried prunes—White bread, |
| Currant Jelly, |
| Tea—Café, |
| Liqueurs, |
| Pipes and Cigarettes. |
Fallowby applauded frantically, and Sylvia served the soup.
"Isn't it delicious?" sighed Odile.
Marie Guernalec sipped her soup in rapture.
"Not at all like horse, and I don't care what they say, horse doesn't taste like beef," whispered Colette to West. Fallowby, who had finished, began to caress his chin and eye the tureen.
"Have some more, old chap?" inquired Trent.
"Monsieur Fallowby cannot have any more," announced Sylvia; "I am saving this for the concierge." Fallowby transferred his eyes to the fish.