"Have two or three while you’re about it," advised Franky, obeying, returning, and perching on the arm of the settee. "And bathe your eyes a bit, have a swab-over of the pinky cream-stuff, and a dab of powder." He brushed some pale mealy traces from his right-arm sleeve and coat-lapel, ending, "And put on your swankiest hat and come along to Nadier’s." "Could we get anything to eat at Nadier’s that we couldn’t get here—or in London, at the Tarlton or the Rocroy? ..." "Stacks of things! For instance—_Canard à la presse_.... They squeeze the juice out of the duck, you twig, with a silver kind of squozzer, and cook it on a chafing-dish under your nose. Look here! ..." Franky, now desperate, produced his watch. "All the cushiest little tables will be taken if you don’t look sharp." "Not on the day of the Grand Prix!" Franky retorted, spurred to maddest invention by the pangs of hunger: "My best child, there are about a hundred thousand wealthy Americans in Paris who don’t care a red cent about racing, while with most of ’em—to eat _canard à la presse_ at Nadier’s in the Bois de Boulogne in the June season—is a—kind of religious rite!" So Margot disappeared to dab her eyes and apply the prescribed touches of perfumed cream and powder, and duly reappeared, crowned with the most marvellous hat that ever promenaded the _ateliers_ of the Maison Blin on the head of a milliner’s _mannequin_. You are to imagine the tiny thing and her Franky seated—not in one of the smart automobiles that wait for hire outside Spitz’s, but in a little red taxi, borne along with the broad double stream of traffic of every description that ceaselessly roared east and west under the now withering red-and-white blossoms of the chestnut-trees of the Avenue of the Champs Elysées, inhaling the stimulating breezes—flavoured with hot dust and petrol, Seine stink, sewer-gas, coffee, patchouli, fruit, Régie tobacco and roses—of Paris in the end of June.