"Yes, sir"—replied Nannette—"all is ready—every thing will be in in a moment."
"But there is another thing I told you, Nannette—the sandwiches."
"The witches, sir?—the sand?"—enquired the puzzled Nannette.
"It is an English dish—I explained it to you before—slices of bread and butter, with ham between."
"Oh la, sir!" exclaimed the maid—"I have forgotten that ragoût—oh dear!"
"Well—make haste, Nannette; get ready some immediately, while my daughter hands round the tea and muffins—you can bring them in on a tray."
The old domestic hurries into the kitchen grumbling at the English dainty, and cuts some slices of bread and covers them with butter; but as she had never thought of the ham, she cogitates a long time how she can supply the want of it—at last, on looking round, she discovers a piece of beef that had been left at dinner.
"Pardieu," she says, "I'll cut some lumps of this and put them on the bread. With plenty of salt they'll pass very well for ham—they'll drive me wild with their English dishes—they will."
The maid speedily does as she says, and then hurries into the room with a tray covered with her extempore ham sandwiches.
Every body takes one,—for they have grown quite fashionable along with tea. But immediately there is an universal murmur in the assembly. The ladies throw their slices into the fire, the gentlemen spit theirs on the furniture, and they cry—"why the devil do people give us things like these?—they're detestable."