“Perhaps the quality will atone for the quantity,” said Halicarnassus, scooping up at least half of his at one “arm-sweep.”

“How do they taste?” I asked.

“Rather coppery,” he answered.

“It is the spoons!” I exclaimed, in a fright.  “They are German silver!  You will be poisoned!”—­and knocked his out of his hand with such instinctive, sudden violence that it flew to the other side of the room, where an old gentleman sat over his newspaper and dinner.

He started, dropped his newspaper, and looked around in a maze.  Halicarnassus behaved beautifully,—­I will give him the credit of it.  He went on with my spoon and his strawberries as unconcernedly as if nothing had happened.  I was conscious that I blushed, but my face was in the shade, and nobody else knew it; and to this day I have no doubt the old gentleman would have marvelled what sent that mysterious spoon rattling against his table and whizzing between his boots, had not Halicarnassus, when the uproar was over, conceived it his duty to go and pick up the spoon and apologize for the accident, lest the gentleman should fancy it an intentional rudeness.  Partly to reward him for his good behavior, partly because I never did think it worth while to make two bites of a cherry, and partly because I did not fancy being poisoned, I gave my fifteen berries to him.  He devoured them with evident relish.

“Does my spoon taste as badly as yours?” I asked.

“My spoon?” inquired he, innocently.

“Yes.  You said before that they tasted coppery.”

“I don’t think,” replied this unprincipled man,—­“I don’t think it was the flavor of the spoon so much as of the coin which each berry represented.”

I could have boxed his ears.

I never made a more unsatisfactory investment in my life than the one I made in that restaurant.  I felt as if I had been swindled, and I said so to Halicarnassus.  He remarked that there was plenty of cream and sugar.  I answered curtly, that the cream was chiefly water, and the sugar chiefly flour; but if they had been Simon Pure himself, was it anything but an aggravation of the offence to have them with nothing to eat them on?

“You might do as they do in France,—­carry away what you don’t eat, seeing you pay for it.”

“A pocketful of milk and water would be both delightful and serviceable; but I might take the sugar,” I added, with a sudden thought, upsetting the sugar-bowl into a “Boston Journal” which we had bought in the train.  “I can never use it, but it will be a consolation to reflect on.”