d the poet, "who primarily studies what
the public needs."

"As I told him. But the next man was worse--hygienic. While with this
creature I read Poe for the first time, and I was singularly fascinated
by some of his grotesques. I tried--it was an altogether new
development, I believe, in culinary art--the Bizarre. I made some
curious arrangements in pork and strawberries, with a sauce containing
beer. Quite by accident I mentioned my design to him on the evening of
the festival. All the Philistine was aroused in him. 'It will ruin my
digestion.' 'My friend,' I said, 'I am not your doctor; I have nothing
to do with your digestion. Only here is a beautiful Japanese thing, a
quaint, queer, almost eerie dinner, that is in my humble opinion worth
many digestions. You may take it or leave it, but 'tis the last dinner
I cook for you.' ... I knew I was wasted upon him.

"Then I produced some Nocturnes in imitation of Mr Whistler, with
mushrooms, truffles, grilled meat, pickled walnuts, black pudding,
French plums, porter--a dinner in soft velvety black, eaten in a
starlight of small scattered candles. That, too, led to a resignation:
Art will ever demand its martyrs."

The poet made sympathetic noises.

"Always. The awful many will never understand. Their conception of my
skill is altogether on a level with their conceptions of music, of
literature, of painting. For wall decorations they love autotypes; for
literature, harmless volumes of twaddle that leave no vivid impressions
on the mind; for dinners, harmless dishes that are forgotten as they
are eaten. _My_ dinners stick in the memory. I cannot study these
people--my genius is all too imperative. If I needed a flavour of
almonds and had nothing else to hand, I would use prussic acid. Do
right, I say, as your art instinct commands, and take no heed of the
consequences. Our function is to make the beautiful gastronomic thing,
not to pander to gluttony, not to be the Jesuits of hygiene. My
friend, you should see some of my compositions. At home I have books
and books in manuscript, Symphonies, Picnics, Fantasies, _Etudes_..."

The train was now entering Clapham Junction. The gentleman with the
gold watch-chain returned my _Punch_. "A cook," he said in a whisper;
"just a common cook!" He lifted his eyebrows and shook his head at me,
and proceeded to extricate himself and his umbrella from the carriage.
"Out of a situation too!" he said--a little l