"Mind you put your money on the crack disc-thrower, though," warned
St. George, "and you might put up a couple of darics for me."
"No," languidly begged Amory, "pray no. You are getting your periods
mixed something horrid."
"A person's recreation is as good for him as his food, sir,"
proclaimed Rollo, sententious, anxious to agree.
"Food," said Amory languidly, "this isn't food--it's molten history,
that's what it is. Think--this is what they had to eat at the cafes
boulevardes of Gomorrah. And to think we've been at Tony's, before
now. Do you remember," he asked raptly, "those brief and savoury
banquets around one o'clock, at Tony's? From where Little Cawthorne
once went away wearing two omelettes instead of his overshoes? Don't
tell me that Tonycana and all this belong to the same system in
space. Don't tell me--"
He stopped abruptly and his eyes sought those of St. George. It was
all so incredible, and yet it was all so real and so essentially,
distractingly natural.
"I feel as if we had stepped through something, to somewhere else.
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