a non-essential, and consequently
fall victims to gout and dyspepsia, or into the clutches of some
international brigandaccio, who declares he is a cordon bleu. One hears
now and again pleasant remarks about the worn-out Latin races, but I
know of one Latin race which can do better than this in cookery." And
having thus delivered herself, the Marchesa lay back on the pillows and
reviewed the situation.

She was sorry in a way to miss the Colonel's dinner. The dishes which
the Bengali cook turned out were excellent, but the host himself was
a trifle dictatorial and too fond of the sound of his own voice, while
certain of the inevitable guests were still worse. Mrs. Gradinger's
letter came as a relief; indeed the Marchesa had been wondering why
she had ever consented to go and pretend to enjoy herself by eating
an ill-cooked dinner in company with social reformers and educational
prigs. She really went because she liked Mr. Gradinger, who was as
unlike his wife as possible, a stout youth of forty, with a breezy
manner and a decided fondness for sport. Lady Considine's dinners were
indifferent, and the guests were apt to be a bit too smart and too
redolent of last season's Monte Carlo odour. The Sinclairs gave good
dinners to perfectly selected guests, and by reason of this virtue,
one not too common, the host and hostess might be pardoned for being
a little too well satisfied with themselves and with their last new
bibelot. The Fothergill dinners were like all other dinners given by the
Fothergills of society. They were costly, utterly undistinguished, and
invariably graced by the presence of certain guests who seemed to have
been called in out of the street at the last moment. Van der Roet's
Japanese menus were curious, and at times inimical to digestion, but
the personality of the host was charming. As to Sir John Oglethorpe, the
question of the dinner postponed troubled her little: another repast,
the finest that London's finest restaurant could furnish, would
certainly be forthcoming before long. In Sir John's case, her
discomposure took the form of sympathy for her friend in his recent
bereavement. He had been searching all his life for a perfect cook,
and he had found, or believed he had found, such an one in Narcisse;
wherefore the Marchesa was fully persuaded that, if that artist should
evade the guillotine, she would again taste his incomparable handiwork,
even though he were suspected of murdering his whole fam