'Have you planned that too?'

'You mean the name of the restaurant? Let's see now . . . might be Michelet's. You know it? You know London? It's near the Covent Garden market. Festive but good.'

'Was that where your father took you?'

'Oh no, I don't think Michelet's was in existence then. We just dined at his club and had the ordinary club dinner--nothing special, except for the novelty it was to me.'

'But you'd rather have Michelet's for Gerry?'

'I would, yes--French cooking for me, any time--even the best London clubs aren't famous for their . . .' He realized that this was dangerous ground; the Fuesslis might think he was dissatisfied with their own table, which he certainly wasn't--after England in wartime it was wonderful. He broke off by adding: 'Please don't think this is an old family tradition or anything absurd like that. It's just that as soon as Gerald's old enough there are so many things I'm looking forward to.'

He had to break off again because Mrs. Fuessli was giggling and he knew it was at himself. 'Oh, do make it SEVENTEEN--not eighteen or nineteen--when you take him to Michelet's,' she pleaded. She looked very impish and provocative in such a mood. 'Because he'll grow up fast in America--our boys of seventeen are almost men.'

Charles thought that this might possibly be true if by men she meant (as she doubtless did) American men; and he reflected again how charming she was, and (with a rueful glance at Mr. Fuessli, who was bald and overweight) how secure must be the position of American womanhood.

Mrs. Fuessli then turned to Gerald. 'Gerry dear, wouldn't you like to have your dad take you to dinner in a big London restaurant on your seventeenth birthday?'

'Not really BIG--' Charles was murmuring, but Gerald, with his mouth full of chocolate ice-cream, was already expressing some kind of inarticulate enthusiasm.

'You see he WOULD, Mr. Anderson. . . . Gerry, make sure you remind him when the time comes. . . . SEVENTEEN, Mr. Anderson--remember that.'

Charles, basking in the thought that Mrs. Fuessli must like him at least enough to make fun of him, felt indulgent--a little puzzled by, but also warm to his hosts. 'All right.