"I’m deeply sorry, sir. This ... gentleman," said the manager, with a withering look at the Grey One, "has eaten his luncheon and doesn’t want to pay for it." "He won’t pay," echoed the waiter feebly. "It’s a [----] lie," bellowed the Grey One. "I _will_ pay. I want to pay. But I’m not going to be [----] well swindled. It’s the same as knocking me down and going through my [----] pockets, and I’ll see you in hell before I stand it!" Another young Englishman came out and joined the first. "What’s up?" he asked. "Dunno exactly," answered his friend. "Waiter says this chap’s trying on a bilk. Chap himself says they’ve rooked him on his lunch." "The gentleman _would_ talk French," said the pale waiter, gaining courage. "I don’t know French, nor ’e don’t neither. I told ’im it was _à la carte_ as soon as ’e pointed to the canteloup." "It’s a barefaced robbery," cried the Grey One, swearing dreadfully. "But it’s no use trying it on _me_. My uncle knows France as well as he knows Battersea Park. And what did he tell me? That you don’t pay more than three or four francs in France for a dinner fit for a lord! Why, even in the French resteronts in Soho, you don’t pay more than eighteenpence for five courses." The manager made a gesture of scorn and despair. "Perhaps you’ll tell us why you ordered a cigar and a whole bottle of _Veuve Clicquot_?" he asked. "Don’t go cross-examining _me_," roared the Grey One. "I know the ropes, so don’t you forget it. Everybody knows that, in France, wine’s cheaper than beer." "That’s it!" chuckled one of the young Englishmen gaily. "Wine’s cheaper than beer, and therefore fizz is cheaper than bottled ale!" "There you are!" cried the Grey One in triumph. "And as for your [----] old cigar, you don’t have me there either. One of the fellows at our place came back from France only last week. At least, it was Holland he’d been to, but it’s all the same. And what did he pay for the cigars he smuggled back? Three for tuppence! Beauties! Yet here it is in your [----] bill, ’Cigars, one franc.’ I say it’s----" "You’ve said all I’m willing to listen to," retorted the manager, as the two young Englishmen went back to their feeding. "For the last time, are you going to pay?" "I’ll pay six francs and not a penny more," muttered the Grey One, distinctly frightened. "You’ll pay your bill," said the manager decidedly. "The total is thirty-one francs, seventy-five centimes. I can’t have our guests annoyed by a minute’s further argument. I recommend you to save yourself from very unpleasant consequences." All the fight went out of the Grey One suddenly. He gazed wistfully at the door, which was still held in force by the menials. Then he fumbled in his pockets. "I can’t," he muttered sulkily. "I haven’t got the money. I’ve only got twenty-four francs. And there’ll be my bill at the Shevvle Daw."