with a yellow mayonnaise of
beaten caviare. Their advent was
pregnant with event; for, unaware
of their resilience, I plunged my
knife upon one, to see it fly over
my elbow on to the spotless sheen
of the father next me. He was
ruffled. But, drying the spots with
my napkin till they were invisible,
I bathed him with such tears of
remorse that he was restored to
calm. The waiting, directed by
Boniface, was faultless. And of the
plenty of wine it is unnecessary to
speak.
‘The climax was reached with
snails. These, nine to a dozen on