Satisfied with his youth, he sat down and wrote impulsive pages to Marcelle, which he posted in the hotel post-box before going to bed.
He ordered lunch the next day in the great room of the Savoy.
“I’m having my son,” he said to the maître-d’hotel, with a thrill at the new and unfamiliar word. “He has been wounded. I want the very best you can do for us.” The maître-d’hotel, pencil and pad in hand, made profuse suggestions. But Baltazar had forgotten the terms and indeed the items of European gastronomy. “I leave it in your hands. The best the Savoy can do. It’s the first meal I’ve had with my son—since—— And wine. Champagne. What do you recommend?”
The maître-d’hotel pointed to a 1904 vintage on the list. There was nothing better, said he. Baltazar agreed, suddenly aware that he knew
