sed in the possession of a cook whose artistry was
beyond question, if the same could not be said of the guests to whom
she so frequently ministered. She was a descendant of the French, that
race which makes everything tend towards development of the soul, and
consequently looks upon a meal as something of a sacrament. She
prepared a dinner with a balance of contrast and climax that a composer
might show in writing a tone poem.

On this eventful evening, therefore, the dinner-party, stimulated by
her art and by potent wines (gazing with long-necked dignity at the
autocratic whisky-decanter), rapidly assumed a crescendo and an
accelerando--the two things for which a hostess listens.

H. Stackton Dunckley had held the resolutionist in a duel of
language--a combat with broadswords--and honours were fairly even. The
short-sleeved Johnston Smyth had waged futurist warfare against the
modernist Pyford, while the Honourable Miss Durwent sat helplessly
between them, with as little chance of asserting her rights as the
Dormouse at the Mad Hatter's tea-party. The American had held his own
in badinage with the daughter of Italy on one side and his hostess on
the other, the latter, however, being too skilled in entertaining to do
more than murmur a few encouragements to the spontaneity that so
palpably existed.

'Let me see,' said Lady Durwent as the meal came to a close and the
butler looked questioningly at her. 'Shall we'--she opened the caverns
of her throat, producing a volume that instantly silenced every
one--'SHALL WE HAVE COFFEE IN HERE OR IN THE DRAWING-ROOM? I suppose
you gentlemen, as usual, want to chat over your port and cigars alone.'

H. Stackton Dunckley protested that absence from the ladies, even for
so short a time, would completely spoil his evening--receiving in
reward a languorous glance from Lady Durwent. Johnston Smyth, who had
done more than ample justice to the wines, offered to 'pink' at fifty
yards any man who would consider the proposition for a moment. Only
Norton Pyford, in a sort of befuddled gallantry, suggested that the
ladies might have sentimental confidences to exchange, and leered
amorously at Elise Durwent.

'Well,' said Lady Durwent, 'I am sure we are all curious to hear what
Mr. Selwyn thinks of England, so I think we shall have coffee here. Is
it agreeable to every one?'

Unanimous approval greeted the proposal, and, at a sign from the
hostess, cigarettes, cigars, and coffe