ed the new actor with a skeptic
keenness not so readily to be overcome.

One glance at Ewing's perturbed but mystified face assured Teevan that
the climax of exposure had not been reached. He bustled amiably about
the room, kissing the hand of Mrs. Lowndes, shaking the hand of the
doctor, straightening a picture on the wall, and, at last, lighting a
cigarette as he faced the room from his favorite post on the hearth rug.

"I ran in for a moment to see how my lady prospered," with a graceful
wave of the expiring match toward Mrs. Lowndes, "and all is well. I find
her holding court to youth and age, to wit and wisdom, all of which she
combines graciously in her own person. She is looking weary, perhaps,
but rejoiced. Gentlemen, you have served her well. Doubtless our young
friend here, Mr.--Ah, yes, Mr. Ewing--has talked enchantingly. I've had
an art evening with him myself." He bestowed a glance of benevolent
approval on Ewing, who smiled in return.

"By the way, my lady, I've sent you a brace of birds that lived their
little span of woods life between last spring and yesterday. Ah, but
they came to a fluent richness of body, brown and plump and tender as
first love, and tanged with autumn spices--so blessed be the piece that
brought them low. Doctor, you'd dissect them for their nerve centers or
the intricacies of their bone structure, but I find them admirable in
all aspects. They rejoice my scientific soul even as they lure my carnal
man. Isn't it Duceps, the falconer, friend of old Izaak, who speaks of
birds that both feed and refresh man--'feed him with their choice
bodies, and refresh him with their heavenly voices'? There was a normal
person, now--not one-sided."

The atmosphere cleared of its cloud wrack as his speech flowed, marked
by pointings of the small, crisp mustache and gracious little pauses of
appeal to each of the listeners in turn.

From edible songsters he progressed to the cooking of these, and thence
to speech on the art of cooking at large. There were pessimists, it
seemed, to bemoan the day when a _maitre d'hotel_ would die rather than
outlive the dishonor of his master's table, as when Vatel stabbed
himself because the fish for one of Conde's dinners failed to arrive on
time--proving, as Savarin observed, that the fanaticism of honor could
exist in the kitchen as well as in the camp. But in the opinion of the
speaker these were pinchbeck heroics. Vatel would have been the truer
Frenchman, c