"Wal, gentlemen, we shall get on. As there's five minutes to spare, would you like to give an opinion on the wine-list, and oblige me by your advice?"
The Twins perused the latter document with sparkling eyes. It was a noble list. Gilead Beck's plan was simple. He just ordered the best of everything. For Sauterne, he read Château Iquem: for Burgundy, he took Chambertin; for Claret, Château Lafite; for Champagne, Heidsieck; for Sherry, Montilla; a Box Boutel wine for Hock; and for Port the '34. Never before, in all its experiences of Americans, Russians, and returned colonials, had the management of the Langham so "thorough" a wine-bill to make out as for this dinner.
"Is that satisfactory, gentlemen?"
"Cornelius, what do you think?"
"Humphrey, I think as you do; and that is, that this princely selection shows Mr. Beck's true appreciation of Literature and Art."
"It is kind of you, gentlemen, to say so. I talked over the dinner with the chef, and I have had the menou printed, as you see it, in gilt and colours, which I am given to understand is the correct thing at the Guildhall. Would you like to look at that?"
They showed the greatest desire to look at it. Humphrey read it aloud with emphasis. While he read and while his brother listened, Mr. Beck thought they seemed a good deal older than before. Perhaps that was before their faces were turned to the light, and the reflection through an open window of the sinking sun showed up the crow's-feet round their eyes.
"Humph! Plovers' eggs. Clear mulligatawny; clear, Cornelius. Turtle-fins. Salmon—I translate the French. Turbot. Lochleven trout——"
"Very good indeed, so far," said Cornelius, with a palpable smack of his lips.
"Lamb-cutlets with peas—a simple but excellent dish; aspic of foie gras—ah, two or three things which I cannot translate; a preparation of pigeon; haunch of venison; yes——"