the pale wife and the pea-green parrot--_allons, allons_!" To
Martinetti's accordingly we went. I don't know what the dinner cost.
It was dearer, certainly, than it would have been in London, but it
was quite as good. We sat at a table formed for holding four at an
open window, which, filled with exotics, overlooked Union Square,
lighted by hundreds of incandescent lamps. The room contained about
twenty of these small tables, and was, I suppose, very much like
other rooms of its kind to _habitues_ of such places, but it was all
new to me, and I stared and wondered accordingly. The waiters seemed
to be all foreigners, De Kock addressing them in a mythical but
magical language of his own. The tables were all full, and the
people at them were mostly foreigners as well.

"The Leicester Square of New York," remarked De Kock, as he helped
me to the delicious Chiante wine out of a basket-covered bottle into
a dainty glass. The soup was excellent, I remember. So was the
macaroni, served in the best Italian method. I wondered to see De
Kock manipulate it in finished style, winding yards of it around his
fork, and swallowing it duly without any apparent effort. I cut mine
at that time, although I have learned better now. I recollect the
asparagus, too: served by itself on a great flat dish, and shining
pale and green through the clear golden sauce that was poured over it.
I was just finishing my first luscious, liquid stalk, and indulging
in anticipations of my second, when the highest, the shrillest, the
most piercing, and most unearthly voice I ever heard, shouted out--

"_And for goodness sake don't say I told you_!"

It was electrifying, at least to me. I dropped my half eaten
asparagus stalk and fork at the same time, and looked up to see my