"To luncheon, my dear boy! We'll go to Favre's, and have a stuffed
pepper and a plate of spaghetti an inch deep, after my own
receipt. Botti cooks it deliciously;--and a bottle of red wine,
my boy,--WINE,--not logwood and vinegar. No standing up at a
trough, or sitting on a high stool, or wandering about with a
sandwich between your fingers,--ruining your table manners and
your digestion. And now tell me about dear Ruth, and what she says
about coming down to dinner next week?"
It was wonderful how young he looked, and how happy he was, and
how spry his step, as the two turned into William Street and so on
to the cheap little French restaurant with its sanded floor,
little tables for two and four, with their tiny pots of mustard
and flagons of oil and red vinegar,--this last, the "left-overs"
of countless bottles of Bordeaux,--to say nothing of the great
piles of French bread weighing down a shelf beside the
proprietor's desk, racked up like cordwood, and all of the same
color, length, and thickness.
Every foot of the way through the room toward his own table--his
for years, and which was placed in the far corner overlooking the
doleful little garden with its half-starved vine and hanging
baskets--Peter had been obliged to speak to everybody he passed
(some of the younger men rose to their feet to shake his hand)--
until he reached the proprietor and gave his order.
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