Leighton looked up.

"My old one, you are perhaps right." He turned to Lewis. "Better skip
the fish." At the next dish he remarked, "Following the theory that a
dinner should progress as a child learning to walk, _Maître_, I have at
this point dared to introduce an entremets--_cèpes francs à la tête
noire_----"

"_À la bordelaise_," completed Le Brux, his nose above the dish. He
helped Leighton to half of its contents and himself to the rest.

"Have patience, my old one," cried Leighton, "the boy may have an
uneducated palate, but he is none the less possessed of a sublobular
void that demands filling at stated intervals."

"Bah!" cried Le Brux, "order him a dish of tripe with onions--and _vin
ordinaire_. But he'll have to sit at another table."

"No," said Leighton, "that won't do. We'll let him sit here and watch us
and when they come, we'll give him all the sweets and we'll watch him."

"Agreed," said Le Brux.




CHAPTER XX