Immediately a stout, red-faced woman in black ran out of the kitchen in protest.
"No, no, Harry ... this place is reserved for Monsieur Lambert." [mq´sjE: lxm´ber] (- Madame Chobert pronounces the name in the French manner.)
"Do not get excited, Madame Chobert [mq´dRm SP´ber]," Chester smiled. "You know Monsieur Lambert is my good friend. Besides, he is always late."
Madam Chobert was not pleased; she tried to argue, but in the end Harry Chester's pleasant manner was too much for her. She stopped arguing and offered the menu-card for their inspection.
At Chester's suggestion they ordered tomato soup, steak and cheese. Beer was already on the table.
"Strange, isn't it," Chester said, "how you can always tell a University man. Philip Lambert [´fIlIp ´lxmbqrt] is one too. After Harrow" - he shot a quick glance at Stephen - "I should have gone to Cambridge myself ... if I hadn't given it up for art."
He went on to say, with a smile, that his father had been a well-known tea-planter in Ceylon [sI´lPn]. His mother, now a widow, lived in England and was quite rich. Naturally she spoiled him by giving him too much money. He had been in Paris eighteen months.
"It's a lot of fun," he said finally.
They had finished their coffee. People were beginning to leave.
"Your friend Lambert doesn't seem to be coming," Stephen said at last, to break the silence.
Chester laughed, "You never quite know when he'll turn up. His habits are quite irregular."