“But they are as absolute as the Code Napoléon,” cried Aristide. “You can’t play without knowing them. You might as well play chess without knowing the moves.”
“Can’t help it,” said the young man.
“Well, don’t play ecarté any more.”
“I must,” said Miller.
“Comment?”
“I must. I’ve fixed it up to get my revenge this afternoon—in my sitting room at the hotel.”
“But it’s imbecile!”
The sweep of Aristide’s arm produced prismatic chaos among a tray-full of drinks which the waiter was bringing to the family party at the next table. “It’s imbecile,” he cried, as soon as order was apologetically and pecuniarily restored. “You are a little mutton going to have its wool taken off.”
“I’ve fixed it up,” said Miller. “I’ve never gone back on an engagement yet in my own country and I’m not going to begin this side.”
Aristide argued. He argued during the mechanical absorption of four glasses of vermouth-cassis—after which prodigious quantity of black currant syrup he rose and took the Gadarene youth to Nikola’s where he continued the argument during déjeuner. Eugene Miller’s sole concession was that Aristide should be present at the encounter and, backing his hand, should have the power (given by the rules of the French game) to guide his play. Aristide agreed and crammed his young friend with the jeux de règle and pâté de foie gras.