rather good, what! Everything comes to him who waits, and you're a waiter, what, what. I mean to say, what!"
"Mummie," said the child at the other table, still speculative, "do you think something trod on his face?"
"Hush, darling."
"Perhaps it was bitten by something?"
"Eat your nice fish, darling," said the mother, who seemed to be one of those dull-witted persons whom it is impossible to interest in a discussion on first causes.
Archie felt stimulated. Not even the advent of his father-in-law, who came in a few moments later and sat down at the other end of the room, could depress his spirits.
The Sausage Chappie came to his table again.
"It's a funny thing," he said. "Like waking up after you've been asleep. Everything seems to be getting clearer. The dog's name was Marie. My wife's dog, you know. And she had a mole on her chin."
"The dog?"
"No. My wife. Little beast! She bit me in the leg once."
"Your wife?"
"No. The dog. Good Lord!" said the Sausage Chappie.
Archie looked up and followed his gaze.
A couple of tables away, next to a sideboard on which the management exposed for view the cold meats and puddings and pies mentioned in volume two of the bill of fare ("Buffet Froid"), a man and a girl had just seated themselves. The man was stout and middle-aged. He bulged in practically every place in which a man can bulge, and his head was amost entirely free from
