French, Dickums, draw a fine distinction between a gourmand and a gourmet. The former is merely a glutton, while the latter is a connoisseur, an epicure. For me, a few of the clams, a little of the consommé—with radishes and cucumbers, some of the bluefish, a wee portion of the boiled fowl, a slice of beef, some potatoes, cauliflower, beets, and—yes, macaroni au gratin, a taste of the raspberry sherbet, a bit of the salad—”
“Oh, let up, for goodness’ sake!” begged Roy. “You make me feel as though I had already had a big dinner. Let’s cut the clams out and get down to business; I’m hungry. I want soup and lots of it. Pass the bread, Dick.”
“You talk like a gourmand,” said Chub sorrowfully. “I beg of you not to spoil your appetite with bread. Just cast your eye over the list of things to come, Roy, and hesitate.”
“Don’t you worry,” answered Roy, his mouth full of bread and butter, “I won’t let much get by me!”
An hour later, they were sipping their after-dinner coffee and dallying with cheese and crackers. Then Chub settled a little lower in his chair
