The exuberant Teutonic chatter was balanced on the other side of the room by an even more penetrating conversation unflaggingly maintained by a party of Americans, who were sitting in judgment on the cuisine of the country they were passing through, and finding few extenuating circumstances. “What Mr. Lonkins wants is a real _deep_ cherry pie,” announced a lady in a tone of dramatic and honest conviction. “Why, yes, that is so,” corroborated a gentleman who was apparently the Mr. Lonkins in question; “a real _deep_ cherry pie.” “We had the same trouble way back in Paris,” proclaimed another lady; “little Jerome and the girls don’t want to eat any more _crème renversée_. I’d give anything if they could get some real cherry pie.” “Real _deep_ cherry pie,” assented Mr. Lonkins. “Way down in Ohio we used to have peach pie that was real good,” said Mrs. Lonkins, turning on a tap of reminiscence that presently flowed to a cascade. The subject of pies seemed to lend itself to indefinite expansion. “Do those people think of nothing but their food?” asked Elaine, as the virtues of roasted mutton suddenly came to the fore and received emphatic recognition, even the absent and youthful Jerome being quoted in its favour. “On the contrary,” said Courtenay, “they are a widely-travelled set, and the man has had a notably interesting career. It is a form of home-sickness with them to discuss and lament the cookery and foods that they’ve never had the leisure to stay at home and digest. The Wandering Jew probably babbled unremittingly about some breakfast dish that took so long to prepare that he had never time to eat it.” A waiter deposited a dish of Wiener Nierenbraten in front of Elaine. At the same moment a magic hush fell upon the three German ladies at the adjoining table, and the flicker of a great fear passed across their eyes. Then they burst forth again into tumultuous chatter. Courtenay had proved a reliable prophet.