In all, £89 8s.—(This is one of the few restaurants where a charge is made for the addition.)
"Make out the bill," said I, "in francs, and send it to the executors of Mademoiselle Faustine."
II.
Monsieur Victor de Train-de-Luxe is in many respects a delightful person. In other ways he is not. For instance, because he was, accidentally, the cause of my backing a winner at Ascot (simply by means of ordinary stable information), he had the bad taste to suggest that I should stand him a dinner.
I said, "Certainly, my dear Comte" (Comte being the courtesy title I invariably give to foreigners from whom I have the hope of borrowing money).
"Where shall it be?"
"There is only one place where one can dine," I said.
"Of course—the Bon Marché," he replied.
"No," I answered. "No, mon ami. If you wish to eat a really characteristic English dinner, come to the Vegetarian Restaurant in Edgware Road. Come along. Come, now!"
"But it's only six o'clock. I am not hungry."