so that eating actually became a minor consideration on the very spot consecrated to its rites.
"Of course one gets the best things at the Terrasse—but that looks as if one hadn't any other reason for being there: the Americans who don't know any one always rush for the best food. And the Duchess of Beltshire has taken up Bécassin's lately," Mrs. Bry earnestly summed up.
Mrs. Bry, to Mrs. Fisher's despair, had not progressed beyond the point of weighing her social alternatives in public. She could not acquire the air of doing things because she wanted to, and making her choice the final seal of their fitness.
Mr. Bry, a short pale man, with a business face and leisure clothes, met the dilemma hilariously.
"I guess the Duchess goes where it's cheapest, unless she can get her meal paid for. If you offered to blow her off at the Terrasse she'd turn up fast enough."
But Mrs. Jack Stepney interposed. "The Grand Dukes go to that little place at the Condamine. Lord Hubert says it's the only restaurant in Europe where they can cook peas."
Lord Hubert Dacey, a slender shabby-looking man, with a charming worn smile, and the air of having spent his best years in piloting the wealthy to the right restaurant, assented with gentle emphasis: "It's quite that."
"Peas?" said Mr. Bry contemptuously. "Can they cook
terrapin? It just shows," he continued, "what these Euro-
