“Hold a minute,” Maddingham cried. “First toast of obligation: For what we are going to receive, thank God and the British Navy.”
“Amen!” said the others with a nod towards Lieutenant Tegg, of the Royal Navy afloat, and, occasionally, of the Admiralty ashore.
“Next! ‘Damnation to all neutrals!’” Maddingham went on.
“Amen! Amen!” they answered between gulps that heralded the sole à la Colbert. Maddingham picked up the menu. “Suprème of chicken,” he read loudly. “Filet béarnaise, Woodcock and Richebourg ’74, Pêches Melba, Croûtes Baron. I couldn’t have improved on it myself; though one might,” he went on—“one might have substituted quail en casserole for the woodcock.”
“Then there would have been no reason for the Burgundy,” said Tegg with equal gravity.
“You’re right,” Maddingham replied.
The foreign actress shrugged her shoulders. “What can you do with people like that?” she said to her companion. “And yet I’ve been singing to ’em for a fortnight.”
“I left it all to Henri,” said Portson.
“My Gord!” the eavesdropping woman whispered. “Get on to that! Ain’t it typical? They leave everything to Henri in this country.”
“By the way,” Tegg asked Winchmore after the fish, “where did you mount that one-pounder of yours after all?”