"Monsieur," I replied, "is both hungry and greedy. You have full scope for your art."
He straightened himself, and for an inspired moment gazed at the ceiling. Then he slapped his forehead.
"Monsieur," he said, "with your permission I go to consult the chef."
"Go," I replied. "And Heaven attend your council."
He hurried off, and I beckoned to the head waiter.
"Fetch me," I said, "a Virginian cigarette and a sherry and bitters."
A true gourmet would probably shudder at such a first course, but it must be remembered that for three years my taste had had no opportunity of becoming over-trained. Besides, in matters of this sort I always act on the principle that it's better to enjoy oneself than to be artistically correct.
Lying back in my chair I looked out over the little restaurant with a sensation of beautiful complacency. The soft rose-shaded lamps threw a warm glamour over everything, and through the delicate blue spirals of my cigarette I could just see the laughing face of a charmingly pretty girl who was dining with an elderly man at the opposite table. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was close on eight—the hour when the cell lights at Princetown are turned out, and another dragging night of horror and darkness begins. Slowly and luxuriously I sipped my sherry and bitters.
I was aroused from my reverie by the approach of M. Gaultier, who carried a menu in his hand.
He handed me the card with another bow, and then stepped back as though to watch the result. This was the dinner: