ld; but I think, perhaps, it is as much
vexation as anything else, you know if anything goes wrong, especially
with the entrees------'

'He feels as a great artist must,' said Leander, finishing her sentence.
'However, I am not sorry at this moment to find him a prisoner, for I
am pressed to see him. It is only this morning that I have returned from
Mr. Coningsby's at Hellingsley: the house full, forty covers every
day, and some judges. One does not grudge one's labour if we are
appreciated,' added Leander; 'but I have had my troubles. One of my
marmitons has disappointed me: I thought I had a genius, but on the
third day he lost his head; and had it not been---- Ah! good papa,'
he exclaimed, as the door opened, and he came forward and warmly shook
the hand of a portly man, advanced in middle life, sitting in an easy
chair, with a glass of sugared water by his side, and reading a French
newspaper in his chamber robe, and with a white cotton nightcap on his
head.

'Ah! my child,' said Papa Prevost, 'is it you? You see me a prisoner;
Eugenie has told you; a dinner at a merchant's; dressed in a draught;
everything spoiled, and I------' and sighing, Papa Prevost sipped his
_eau sucree_.

'We have all our troubles,' said Leander, in a consoling tone; 'but
we will not speak now of vexations. I have just come from the country;
Daubuz has written to me twice; he was at my house last night; I found
him on my steps this morning. There is a grand affair on the tapis.
The son of the Duke of Bellamont comes of age at Easter; it is to be a
business of the thousand and one nights; the whole county to be feasted.
Camacho's wedding will do for the peasantry; roasted oxen, and a
capon in every platter, with some fountains of ale and good Porto. Our
marmitons, too, can easily serve the provincial noblesse; but there is
to be a party at the Castle, of double cream; princes of the blood,
high relatives and grandees of the Golden Fleece. The duke's cook is not
equal to the occasion. 'Tis an hereditary chef who gives dinners of the
time of the continental blockade. They have written to Daubuz to send
them the first artist of the age,' said Leander; 'and,' added he, with
some hesitation, 'Daubuz has written to me.'

'And he did quite right, my child,' said Prevost, 'for there is not a
man in Europe that is your equal. What do they say? That Abreu rivals
you in flavour, and that Gaillard has not less invention. But who can
combine _gout_ w