“What is the matter, count?” asked Sophia Ann, while a mischievous twinkle was swimming in her dark eyes.
“Is it possible you can relish that soup?” inquired Tousky Wousky, regarding her with amazement as she swallowed spoonful after spoonful.
“It is very good, is it not?” said Sophy, looking the very picture of sweet simplicity.
Tousky Wousky took another spoonful, then suddenly seized a tumbler of iced water to drown the recollection of the nauseous compound. Turning to Deflamzi, he said, “What do you call this—stuff, my dear count?”
“It is Soup à la Julien to be sure, and very good.”
“Soup à la Julien!” exclaimed Tousky Wousky, “I should call it soup à la swill-pail. I never tasted anything half so bad. Here, garçon! take this plate away, and tell the cook I shall have him indicted for an attempt to poison.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
The dinner was a good dinner, and Tousky Wousky was suffered to finish the remainder of it in peace. Just before the dessert was introduced, Count Deflamzi was called out by a servant, and begging to be excused for a few minutes, quitted the apartment. He had not been gone long when the same servant re-entered and informed Tousky Wousky, that the cook, to whom he had sent the message touching the soup, desired to speak with him.
“Show him in! show him in!” exclaimed several voices. “Ten to one, he means to challenge you, Tousky Wousky, for abusing his soup. Ha! ha! ha!”
Tousky Wousky began to look pale, but tried to laugh it off, and said, “Nonsense! I can’t see the fellow now. Tell him to call on me at my hotel.”