He studied the white, piquante face and wondered if he had made a mistake. But he added a new shade of respect to his suave acknowledgment of her order. Not many ladies with such red lips, combined with a costume of faultless cut, carelessly dismissed champagne. He bowed himself away from her, and sent the pair his best waiter. "I'm glad you approve of the little place." McTaggart took on an explorer's pride. "I found it by the merest chance and since then have come often. The food's not bad--well, you'll see for yourself!--and it always comes in piping hot. Now, what shall we have?" He gathered up the big card with its printed list. "Petite Marmite,--d'you agree to that? and fish--you choose----" he handed it over. "Skate," she said decidedly--"with 'black butter'" (she translated). "It sounds vile in English, somehow--what a difference language makes to things. Listen, now--'Raie au beurre noir'--Isn't there a charm about it?--and ... 'Veal Schnitzel' ... and 'Petits Pois'--Yes, I know they're tinned----" she forestalled his objection--"but with plenty of butter and well cooked...." she flashed an expressive little gesture. "What potatoes?" McTaggart asked. "Fi donc!" She smiled indulgently--"a boiled potato for you, mon cher--the hall-mark of the English 'home.' And cabbage, perhaps, to make you happy!" "No--I draw the line at that!--What do you say to a bird, to follow?" "Comme tu veux!--For me it's enough--with a little fruit and good coffee ... and a 'petit verre.' Say, now, Pierrot, shall we come one day and sit there?" She pointed gaily through the screen to the crowded noisy room beyond. "I should love that! To sip absinthe--dressed like a little milliner! Look at that woman on the right with the shabby ulster and elegant boots. You rarely see that over here--It's a feathered hat in the latest fashion and no thought for the 'dessous.' And the hair all scrabbled up and _dull_--the gloves old or far too tight--everything squandered on the dress, with colors to make one's ... 'digestion' turn!" "Even the women in higher classes don't seem 'soignees'--only smart. And you call yourself a clean race! ... Because you walk through a cold bath." For that sudden mirage of the Past had aroused in her the mal du pays. She flogged the Present with a rod, pickled in salt experience. McTaggart felt a trifle ruffled. He was English enough to hold the theory that nothing outside the little island--with a patronizing lesser degree of excellence for its colonies--could nearly approach the standard set by British prosperity--plus its morals.