First they had pâté de foie gras on very thin slices of toast, then they had duckling with black cherries, then they had a sort of bombe surprise with lots of glacé fruit in it, and there was absolutely nothing to drink except champagne. They’d all done quite well this year and they expected they’d do quite well next year too.
“Things are not all for the best,” said Stefan, “in the best of all possible worlds, as we know, but I think on the whole that a modicum of happiness is occasionally possible for the luckiest of us.”
“Stefan is becoming philosophical,” said Rudi, “give the poor blighter another glass of fizz.”
“Not so much philosophical,” said Gyorgy, “as sententious. Give him a punch, not too hard, but palpable.”
“Leave him alone,” said Eva, “I do not allow my guests to punch each other on Christmas Day. To be philosophical or even sententious is his privilege on such an occasion. Let us drink a toast to the Commonwealth of Australia. What a country! I still cannot believe my fate. To finish up a subject of the English monarch—I ask you! Fill the glasses, Sandor. To the Commonwealth of Australia! And to the Queen!”
Twenty glasses were raised to the accompaniment of much laughter and the toasts were drunk, and then the adult portion of the twenty assorted, chiefly Hungarian, Continentals present lit cigarettes and cigars. They sat for a long time talking and then they walked down the hill to Balmoral Beach and played a game which bore some faint resemblance to soccer.
“It is very beautiful here,” said Magda to Stefan as the sun went down, “it really is.”
“Are you happy?” he asked her.
“Of course not!” said Magda. “What a very vulgar suggestion. Are you?”
“Oh dear, I hope not,” said Stefan.