on both sides—the French and the Italian—with three masterly words.
“Le Chianti est très, très bon!… C’est parfait, monsieur,” he whispered, with a little ecstatic movement of his fingers. “Admirable!”
“Bon,” said Frank with an air of quiet decision. “Alors, Nino,” he continued, raising his voice as he pronounced these two words, which were among his favourites. “Alors, une bouteille du Chianti—n’est-ce pas—”
“Mais si, signor!” said Nino, nodding enthusiastically. “Si—et pour manger?” he went on coaxingly.
“Pour manger?” Frank began—“Ecoute, Nino—vous pouvez recommander quelque chose—quelque chose d’extraordinaire!” Frank cried in a high impassioned tone. “Quelque chose de la maison!” he concluded triumphantly.
“Mais si!” Nino cried enthusiastically. “Sì, signor…. Permettez-moi!… Le spaghetti,” he whispered seductively, rolling his dark eyes rapturously aloft, and making a little mincing movement, indicative of speechless ecstasy, of his thumb and forefinger. “Le spaghetti… de la… maison… ah, signor,” Nino breathed—“le spaghetti avec la sauce de la maison est merveilleux… merveilleux!” he whispered.
“Bon,” said Starwick nodding. “Alors, Nino—le spaghetti pour deux—vous comprenez?”
“Mais si, signor! Si,” Nino breathed. “Parfaitement”—and wrote the miraculous order on his order pad. “Et puis, monsieur,” said Nino coaxingly, and with complete humility. “Permettez-moi de recommander—le poulet,” he whispered rapturously—“le poulet rôti,” he breathed, as if unveiling the rarest secrets of cookery that had been revealed since the days of Epicurus—“le poulet rôti… de la maison,” again he made the little speechless movement of the finger and the thumb, and rolled his rapturous eyes around—“ah, signor,” said Nino, “Vous n’aurez pas de regrets si vous commandez le poulet.”
“Bon…. Bon,” said Starwick quietly and profoundly. “Alors, Nino—deux poulets rôtis, pour moi et pour monsieur,” he commanded.
“Bon, bon,” said Nino, nodding vigorously and writing with enthusiasm—“et pour la salade, messieurs,” he paused—looking inquiringly and yet hopefully at both his lordly young patrons.
And so it went, until the menu had all been gone through in mangled French and monosyllabic Italian. When this great ceremony was over, Frank Starwick had done nothing more nor less than order the one-dollar table-d’hôte dinner which Signor “Pothillippo” provided for all
