Clear soup.
Grilled salmon.
Lamb. New potatoes.
Woodcock.
Pêche Melba.
Marrow on Toast.
I read it through, enjoying each separate word, and then, with a faint sigh, handed it back to him.
"Heaven," I said, "was undoubtedly at the conference."
M. Gaultier picked up a wine list from the table. "And what will
Monsieur drink?" he inquired reverently.
"Monsieur," I replied, "has perfect faith in your judgment. He will drink everything you choose to give him."