Fred is Viennese. His sorrowful, wise eyes meandered over to meet mine. They were expressionless. But the fact that they had moved toward me was, in itself, communication. "I do not like applesauce. Slippery pudding! Go and tell the chef I want my usual baked apple." The churl who spoke was familiar to me by sight. An Englishman--a VIP during the war--who had often stayed at the Astolat. A medium-sized man of sixty with a red face and eyes like gray gas. A brittle British voice, snotty in every particular. An iron-gray Kaiser Wilhelm mustache and a way of smacking his lips underneath it, when he was in a temper, that shook its points. He was always accompanied by his wife. As a rule, they ate quietly--talking together now and then, and more often just swilling in food. She was a lank, vapid woman with a toadstool's complexion, a chin like a fist, and hair tormented into little knobs--as if she absent-mindedly had cooked it, rather than coiffed it--and burned it in the process. Lumpy, burned hair, a disgusting dish of it--and a voice like claws, to match her master's. She stared, now, at her empty plate, and said nothing. She did not seem to be ashamed, or embarrassed, or to be waiting for a storm to subside. She was a woman born without the knack for yielding or apology. She merely looked at her plate because she would be God-damned if she cared to look at anything or anybody else. Fred came back. He put on a sympathetic expression. "The chef says he is very sorry. He says that this is not the time of year for baked apples." "The stands are loaded with apples," the Englishman snorted. "Seen 'em myself!" "I know. But they're eating apples. Not baking apples. They come later in the fall." The Englishman doubled his fist and lightly thumped the table. "I said I wanted a baked apple! All I wanted was a baked apple." "I have explained." "With cream. A baked apple with cream." I have seen Englishmen by the dozen go through this sort of routine. With the exception of certain Germans, some of them are, I believe, the rudest people on the earth. Badly brought-up babies--these empire builders. This one was insulting the waiter and his wife, in the bargain--but I have rarely seen an Englishman who minded insulting his wife by making scenes. When crossed in matters like baked apples they seldom consider wives, children, strangers, decorum, or the reputation of Britannia. They merely behave like twirps. Fred had said nothing. "I suppose," the Englishman at last went on, shivering his mustache, "you mean to tell me I am not to have a baked apple--?" "Perhaps for dinner--one of the eating kind could be baked--" The Englishman suddenly hurled his napkin on his plate. He stood. "No baked apple," he said. "Well!" He intended to stalk from the room. However, Paul--who had at first been chortling over the slow-spilled tray and later watching the Englishman with intent, even exaggerated, care--now interposed, to my great surprise.