Well, he would say nothing. But he could watch; it was a great opportunity. Perhaps he had been too filially swift in acquiescing so easily to his mother’s choice? “I must think it out carefully, then,” said du Val with a quick smile as he resumed his study of the card. “Do,” was Gaveston’s neatly ironic reply. And meantime, while du Val’s attention roved about the amazing dishes set forth for his choice, Monty did not hesitate to point out to Gaveston some few of the famous figures of this new and delirious world upon which he had now stumbled. “That’s Adolphus Jack, of course, and Aaron Einstein further over. And there’s little Chou-chou Wilkins: such a dear! She always wears those black earrings since she did in poor Boris Zemstvo after the Victory Ball--you remember.” Gaveston nodded. The ffoulises took pride in their knowledge of things _mondains_. “And behind Jack, who’s that?” “Oh, that’s the painter fellow, Tierra del Fuego--you know.” Gaveston nodded. He was calm, but it was profoundly moving to a man of his sensitive social perceptibilities thus to see gathered together in so small a space so many of the world’s master minds. Yet already his own personality was making itself felt. From the crowded tables he could hear murmurs of delighted surprise floating across. “_Qui est-ce qui que ça?_” came the gay inquiry of a marvellous _coquette_ whose wild _capriccii_ had been the _thème_ of every _boulvardier_ for _maint jour_. “_Kolossal! Ach, was für gemütlichkeit!_” came the guttural answer of her cavalier. “_Chout katinka petroushka!!_” muttered a famous Muscovite ikonographer in open-eyed admiration, and pointed a stubby forefinger towards Gaveston in his simple _moujik_ manner. “Ready yet, Raoul?” asked Monty, raising his voice to be audible above the veritable Babel of praising tongues. “It’s ze fish I’m puzzled about, Monty,” said du Val. “_Ortolans à la Milanaise_ are excellent here, but isn’t it just a shade early in the year to get zem at zeir best? A fisherman at Capri told me once that before February zey.…” But Gaveston did not listen to what the fisherman had said. This was enough for him. All he knew was that his mother simply hated _ortolans à la Milanaise_. (“So cloying, Gav dearest,” he remembered her wistful expression when he had suggested them once in Monte--or was it Mentone--and how the scented wind from the terrace had stirred his golden locks: he couldn’t have been more than four at the time.) No, this must be the test for Raoul du Val. If the fellow were really in love with poor Mums, he could not possibly eat _ortolans à la Milanaise_. And with stepfathers, reflected Gav, one cannot be too careful. “Well, let Gaveston decide,” said Monty, and there was a moment of pregnant silence. Gaveston smiled at his companions. “Do you like them, Monsieur du Val?” he asked, with every appearance of disinterestedness. “Passionately, Monsieur ffoulis,” replied the Frenchman.