gritting his teeth, 'there's too many Frenchmen in it. Never liked them and never shall. Alblassador to France? I won't do it. No, sir! Not even if they come to me on bended knees. You know what I'll say to 'em? I'll say "No, sir! Certainly not!" Who's that horrible tomato over there in green?'
'That's the Vicomte.'
'What Vicomte?'
'The Vicomte de Blissac.'
'He wants a good poke in the nose.'
'Would you say that?'
'I'd say a lot. Leaky cisterns!'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Granted.'
There was a pause, during which Mr Gedge threw a moody champagne cork at a passing couple.
'You said something about leaky cisterns,' prompted Packy.
His companion swung round with sudden passion.
'And why wouldn't I? Lookut! Suppose a Vicomte's mother told you the plumbing of a Shattlebissack was in good repair, and it wasn't? Suppose this Vicomte's mother kept a leaky cistern under her hat... never mentioned a word of it... practically swore there wasn't such a thing in the place... wouldn't you poke him in the nose?'
'Too bad,' said Packy diplomatically.
'Eh?'
'I said it was too bad.'
'It couldn't be worse,' said Mr Gedge severely.
Packy waited a few moments, but the other had apparently said his say. He had found half a roll and was balancing it in his hand. He seemed undecided whether to throw it at the leader of the orchestra or at an obese, middle-aged Gaul with a long spade-shaped beard who, though his best friends should have advised him against it, had come to the Festival dressed as a Swiss mountaineer.
'This cistern leaks, does it?'
'What do you mean, does it? I've seen it. Seen it with my own eyes.'
'I wish you would show it to me.'
'Eh?'
'I say I would love to see your leaky cistern.'
'How the devil can you see my leaky cistern? It's up at the Shattlebissack.'
Packy would have preferred to postpone the question to another and more propitious moment, but the cue was so pat that it seemed a pity to refuse it.
'Why don't you invite me there?'
'Invite you where?'
'To the Château.'
'What Château?'
'To the Château Blissac.'
Mr Gedge hammered the table with extraordinary violence. The request appeared in some mysterious way to have acted as the last straw.
'I won't invite you to the Shattlebissack. I wouldn't do it. No, sir, I wouldn't do it even if I could. I don't like you. Never have. And don't you snort at me!'
'I was sighing.'
'Sighing's just as bad.'
Packy compromised by throwing silent reproach into his gaze.
'I didn't know you disliked me.'
'Of course I dislike you,' replied Mr Gedge with spirit. 'Who wouldn't?'
'I thought at dinner that ours was going to be one of those great friendships.'
Mr Gedge frowned thoughtfully. He seemed to be trying to direct his mind back to the dinner hour.
'I pictured you then falling on my neck and insisting that I should come and stay at the Château for ever.'
'What Château?'
'I am still referring to the Château Blissac.'
'I live there,' said Mr Gedge with the air of a discoverer.
'I know you do.'
'You better know I do. No fresh young mutt with a cauliflower ear is going to tell me where I live and where I don't live.' He stared at Packy disgustedly.
'Where did you get that ear?'
Packy explained that it was a souvenir of a certain November afternoon when he had been attempting to die for dear old Yale and – with the assistance of eleven sympathetic Princeton men – nearly succeeding in doing so.
'Yale?'
'I played football at Yale.'
Mr Gedge gave a hard laugh.
'They don't play football at Yale,' he said. 'Bean-bag, that's what they play at Yale.'
Packy started, wounded to the quick. Abruptly, the desire to conciliate this tubby little inebriate had vanished, swamped by a fury of injured patriotic pride. A man with an end to gain may suffer much from a cock-eyed acquaintance, but not aspersions on the quality of the football played by his old University.
'Bean-bag,' repeated Mr Gedge firmly. 'You want to see football, you come to California. Yale
'That's the Vicomte.'
'What Vicomte?'
'The Vicomte de Blissac.'
'He wants a good poke in the nose.'
'Would you say that?'
'I'd say a lot. Leaky cisterns!'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Granted.'
There was a pause, during which Mr Gedge threw a moody champagne cork at a passing couple.
'You said something about leaky cisterns,' prompted Packy.
His companion swung round with sudden passion.
'And why wouldn't I? Lookut! Suppose a Vicomte's mother told you the plumbing of a Shattlebissack was in good repair, and it wasn't? Suppose this Vicomte's mother kept a leaky cistern under her hat... never mentioned a word of it... practically swore there wasn't such a thing in the place... wouldn't you poke him in the nose?'
'Too bad,' said Packy diplomatically.
'Eh?'
'I said it was too bad.'
'It couldn't be worse,' said Mr Gedge severely.
Packy waited a few moments, but the other had apparently said his say. He had found half a roll and was balancing it in his hand. He seemed undecided whether to throw it at the leader of the orchestra or at an obese, middle-aged Gaul with a long spade-shaped beard who, though his best friends should have advised him against it, had come to the Festival dressed as a Swiss mountaineer.
'This cistern leaks, does it?'
'What do you mean, does it? I've seen it. Seen it with my own eyes.'
'I wish you would show it to me.'
'Eh?'
'I say I would love to see your leaky cistern.'
'How the devil can you see my leaky cistern? It's up at the Shattlebissack.'
Packy would have preferred to postpone the question to another and more propitious moment, but the cue was so pat that it seemed a pity to refuse it.
'Why don't you invite me there?'
'Invite you where?'
'To the Château.'
'What Château?'
'To the Château Blissac.'
Mr Gedge hammered the table with extraordinary violence. The request appeared in some mysterious way to have acted as the last straw.
'I won't invite you to the Shattlebissack. I wouldn't do it. No, sir, I wouldn't do it even if I could. I don't like you. Never have. And don't you snort at me!'
'I was sighing.'
'Sighing's just as bad.'
Packy compromised by throwing silent reproach into his gaze.
'I didn't know you disliked me.'
'Of course I dislike you,' replied Mr Gedge with spirit. 'Who wouldn't?'
'I thought at dinner that ours was going to be one of those great friendships.'
Mr Gedge frowned thoughtfully. He seemed to be trying to direct his mind back to the dinner hour.
'I pictured you then falling on my neck and insisting that I should come and stay at the Château for ever.'
'What Château?'
'I am still referring to the Château Blissac.'
'I live there,' said Mr Gedge with the air of a discoverer.
'I know you do.'
'You better know I do. No fresh young mutt with a cauliflower ear is going to tell me where I live and where I don't live.' He stared at Packy disgustedly.
'Where did you get that ear?'
Packy explained that it was a souvenir of a certain November afternoon when he had been attempting to die for dear old Yale and – with the assistance of eleven sympathetic Princeton men – nearly succeeding in doing so.
'Yale?'
'I played football at Yale.'
Mr Gedge gave a hard laugh.
'They don't play football at Yale,' he said. 'Bean-bag, that's what they play at Yale.'
Packy started, wounded to the quick. Abruptly, the desire to conciliate this tubby little inebriate had vanished, swamped by a fury of injured patriotic pride. A man with an end to gain may suffer much from a cock-eyed acquaintance, but not aspersions on the quality of the football played by his old University.
'Bean-bag,' repeated Mr Gedge firmly. 'You want to see football, you come to California. Yale
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