"You shall have some bread and milk, Georgey," he said, presently. "Waiter, bread and milk, and a pint of hock."
Master Talboys made a wry face.
"I never have bread and milk," he said, "I don't like it. I like what gran'pa calls something savory. I should like a veal cutlet. Gran'pa told me he dined here once, and the veal cutlets were lovely, gran'pa said. Please may I have a veal cutlet, with egg and bread-crumb, you know, and lemon-juice you know?" he added to the waiter: "Gran'pa knows the cook here. The cook's such a nice gentleman, and once gave me a shilling, when gran'pa brought me here. The cook wears better clothes than gran'pa—better than yours, even," said Master Georgey, pointing to Robert's rough great-coat with a depreciating nod.
Robert Audley stared aghast. How was he to deal with this epicure of five years old, who rejected bread and milk and asked for veal cutlets?
"I'll tell you what I'll do with you, little Georgey," he exclaimed, after a pause—"I'll give you a dinner!"
The waiter nodded briskly.
"Upon my word, sir," he said, approvingly, "I think the little gentleman will know how to eat it."
"I'll give you a dinner, Georgey," repeated Robert—"some stewed eels, a little Julienne, a dish of cutlets, a bird, and a pudding. What do you say to that, Georgey?"
"I don't think the young gentleman will object to it when he sees it, sir," said the waiter. "Eels, Julienne, cutlets, bird, pudding—I'll go and tell the cook, sir. What time, sir?"
"Well, we'll say six, and Master Georgey will get to his new school by bedtime. You can contrive to amuse the child for this afternoon, I dare say. I have some business to settle, and sha'n't be able to take him out. I shall sleep here to-night. Good-by, Georgey; take care of yourself and try and get your appetite in order against six o'clock."