The cocher was driving over the bridge of Alexandre III with its golden horses gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight when Peter bent forward and addressed him.
Allez au Café Anglais.
Where meant nothing to me, but I was a little surprised at his hesitation. The cocher changed his route, grumbling a bit, for he was out of his course.
I don't know why I ever suggested Foyot, said Peter, or the Café Anglais either. We'll go to the Petit Riche.
