Beef Soup à la Siège de Paris.
Fish. Sardines à la père Lachaise. (White Wine).
Rôti (Red Wine). Fresh Beef à la sortie.
Vegetables. Canned Beans à la chasse-pot, Canned Peas Gravelotte, Potatoes Irlandaises, Miscellaneous.
Cold Corned Beef à la Thieis, Stewed Prunes à la Garibaldi.
Dessert. Dried prunes—White bread, Currant Jelly, Tea—Café, Liqueurs, Pipes and Cigarettes.
Fallowby applauded frantically, and Sylvia served the soup.
“Isn’t it delicious?” sighed Odile.
Marie Guernalec sipped her soup in rapture.
“Not at all like horse, and I don’t care what they say, horse doesn’t taste like beef,” whispered Colette to West. Fallowby, who had finished, began to caress his chin and eye the tureen.
“Have some more, old chap?” inquired Trent.
“Monsieur Fallowby cannot have any more,” announced Sylvia; “I am saving this for the concierge.” Fallowby transferred his eyes to the fish.
The sardines, hot from the grille, were a great success. While the others were eating Sylvia ran downstairs with the soup for the old concierge and her husband, and when she hurried back, flushed and breathless, and had slipped into her chair with a happy smile at Trent, that young man arose, and silence fell over the table. For an instant he looked at Sylvia and thought he had never seen her so beautiful.