Then came the fowl, roasted, of course - the roast
fowl is the national bird of France - and along with the fowl
something exceedingly appetizing in the way of hearts of lettuce
garnished with breasts of hothouse tomatoes cut on the bias.
When we were through with this the servants removed the debris and
brought us hot plates. Then, with the air of one conferring a
real treat on us, the butler bore around a tureen arrangement full
of smoking-hot string-beans. When it came my turn I helped myself
- copiously - and waited for what was to go with the beans. A
pause ensued - to my imagination an embarrassed pause. Seeking a
cue I glanced down the table and back again. There did not appear
to be anything to go with the beans. The butler was standing at
ease behind his master's chair - ease for a butler, I mean - and the
other guests, it seemed to me, were waiting and watching. To
myself I said:
"Well, sir, that butler certainly has made a J. Henry Fox Pass of
himself this trip! Here, just when this dinner was getting to be
one of the notable successes of the present century, he has to go
and derange the whole running schedule by serving the salad when
he should have served the beans, and the beans when he should have
served the salad.
