ow morning."

John Turner set down the vinegar bottle and looked across the table at
me with an expression of wonder on his broad face.

"Well, I never! Did you see Madame? Clever woman, Madame. Gives
excellent dinners."

"Yes; I was presented to her."

"Ah! A match for you, Mr. Dick. Did you notice her feet?"

"I noticed that they were well shod."

"Just so!" muttered John Turner, who was now engaged in gastronomic
delights. "In France a clever woman is always _bien chaussee_. Her
brains run to her toes. In England it is different. If a woman has a
brain it undermines her morals or ruins her waist."

"Only the plain women," suggested I, who had passed several seasons in
London not altogether in vain.

"A pretty woman is never clever--she is too wise," said John Turner,
stolidly, and he sipped his chablis.

The mysterious sauce with which this great gastronome flavoured his
oysters was now prepared, while I, it must be confessed, had consumed
my portion, and John Turner relapsed into silence. I watched him as he
ate delicately, slowly, with a queer refinement. Many are ready to
talk of some crafts under the name of art, which must now, forsooth,
be spelt with a capital letter--why, I know no more than the artists.
John Turner had his Art, and now exercised it. I always noticed that
during the earlier and more piquant courses of a meal he was cynical
and apt to give speech on matters of human meanness and vanity not
unknown to many who are silent about them. Later on, when the dishes
became more succulent, so would his views of life sweeten and acquire
a mellower flavour. His round face now began to beam more pleasantly
at me across the well-served table, like a rich autumn moon rising
over a fat land.

"Pity it is," he said, as he placed a lamb cutlet on my plate, "that
you and your father cannot agree."

"Pity that the guv'nor is so unreasonable," I answered.

"I do not suppose there is any question of reason on either side,"
rejoined my companion, with a laugh. "But I think you might make a
little more allowance. You must remember that we old fellows are not
so wise and experienced as our youngers and betters. I know he is a
hot-blooded old reprobate--that father of yours. I thumped him at Eton
for it half a century ago. And you're a worthy son to him, I make no
doubt--you have his great chin. But you are all he has, Dick--don't
forget that now and remember it too late. Have another cutlet?"

"Thanks.