ell--one bowl in the centre is enough--but in many houses the cost
of the flowers equals, if it does not outrun, the cost of all the rest
of the entertainment. A few roses or chrysanthemums are perfect as
accessories, but to load a table with flowers of heavy or pungent scent
is an outrage. Lilies of the valley are lovely in proper surroundings,
but on a dinner-table they are anathema. And then the mass of paper
monstrosities which crowd every corner. Swans, nautilus shells, and even
wild boars are used to hold up the menu. Once my menu was printed on a
satin flag, and during the war the universal khaki invaded the dinner
table. Ices are served in frilled baskets of paper, which have a
tendency to dissolve and amalgamate with the sweet. The only paper on
the table should be the menu, writ plain on a handsome card."

"No one can complain of papery ices here," said the Marchesa. "Ices may
be innocuous, but I don't favour them, and no one seems to have felt the
want of them; at least, to adopt the phrase of the London shopkeeper,
'I have had no complaints.' And even the ice, the very emblem of purity,
has not escaped the touch of the dinner-table decorator. Only a few days
ago I helped myself with my fingers to what looked like a lovely peach,
and let it flop down into the lap of a bishop who was sitting next to
me. This was the hostess's pretty taste in ices."

"They are generally made in the shape of camelias this season," said Van
der Roet. "I knew a man who took one and stuck it in his buttonhole."

"I must say I enjoy an ice at dinner," said Lady Considine. "I know the
doctors abuse them, but I notice they always eat them when they get the
chance."

"Ah, that is merely human inconsistency," said Sir John. "I am inclined
to agree with the Marchesa that ice at dinner is an incongruity, and may
well be dispensed with. I think I am correct, Marchesa, in assuming that
Italy, which has showered so many boons upon us, gave us also the taste
for ices."

"I fear I must agree," said the Marchesa. "I now feel what a blessing
it would have been for you English if you had learnt from us instead the
art of cooking the admirable vegetables your gardens produce. How is it
that English cookery has never found any better treatment for vegetables
than to boil them quite plain? French beans so treated are tender, and
of a pleasant texture on the palate, but I have never been able to find
any taste in them. They are tasteless largely