bloodthirsty beast of prey, to be
hunted down off the face of the earth as fast as may be. Whereas
man--what does he do? He devours the livers of a dozen geese in one
_pate_; he has lobsters boiled alive, that the scarlet tint may look
tempting to his palate; he has fish cut up or fried in all its living
agonies, lest he should lose one _nuance_ of its flavour; he has the
calf and the lamb killed in their tender age, that he may eat dainty
sweetbreads; he has quails and plovers slaughtered in the
nesting-season, that he may taste a slice of their breasts; he crushes
oysters in his teeth whilst life is in them; he has scores of birds and
animals slain for one dinner, that he may have the numberless dishes
which fashion exacts; and then--all the time talking softly of _rissole_
and _mayonnaise_, of _consomme_ and _entremet_, of _croquette_ and
_cotelette_--the dear _gourmet_ discourses on his charming science, and
thanks God that he is not as the parded beasts that prey!"

"Well," said I, sulkily, for I am fond myself of a good
_vol-au-vent_,--"well, you have said that eating is a law in the
economies--or the waste--of creation. Is it not well to clothe a
distasteful and barbaric necessity in a refining guise and under an
elegant nomenclature?"

"Sophist!" said Fanfreluche, with much scorn, though she herself is as
keen an epicure and as suave a sophist, for that matter, as I know,--"I
never denied that it was well for men to cheat themselves, through the
art of their cooks, into believing that they are not brutes and beasts
of prey--it is well exceedingly--for their vanity. Life is sustained
only by the destruction of life. Cookery, the divine, can turn this
horrible fact into a poetic idealism; can twine the butcher's knife with
lilies, and hide the carcass under roses. But I do assuredly think that,
when they sit down every night with their _menu_ of twenty services,
they should not call the poor lion bad names for eating an antelope once
a fortnight."

And, with the true consistency of preachers, Fanfreluche helped herself
to a Madeira stewed kidney which stood amongst other delicacies on the
deserted luncheon table.

* * *

"If this play should succeed it will be a triumph of true art," said
another critical writer to Dudley Moore.

That great personage tapped his Louis-Quinze snuffbox with some
impatience.

"Pardon me, but it is not possible to have art at all on the stage. Art
is a pure