an infinite power in suggestion.
That may account, in part at least, for the complacency with which I
accepted these remarkable perversions of the ordinary menu. If ideas
are the only realities, my green goose might have come straight from
Washington Market itself.

The two vegetables, cauliflower an gratin and boiled potatoes, were
good to look at and good to eat, although neither of them had ever seen
a garden. There was a salad, too, with an incomparable dressing.
Finally, an excellent pudding. The wines and mineral waters, the
liqueurs and the coffee, were genuine. The fantastic cuisine of my
hostess extended only to the solid portions of the repast, and for this
I was secretly thankful. I don't like chemical burgundies, and the
"health-food" mochas and javas are only surprisingly good imitations of
exceedingly bad coffee.

The chair opposite me remained unfilled, but each course was served at
the cover as scrupulously as though the Lady Allegra were actually
present. It made me feel a trifle uncomfortable at the first--the sight
of that vacant chair set back a little from the table, the napkin half
unfolded, the full wineglasses, the plate with its untouched food. And
once, when the foot-man offered the cauliflower to my invisible
vis-a-vis, it seemed as though she declined it. The man hesitated a
second and then passed on without putting a portion on the plate. For
the moment I was foolish enough to contemplate a similar refusal, but I
reconsidered--I am very fond of cauliflower.

At the conclusion of dinner I took my cigar into the red drawing-room.
The lights had been lowered, and only the opalescent bull's-eye glowed
with undiminished brilliancy. I sat staring at it, and the outrageous
perplexity of the situation began to get on my nerves. I must get out
of here, and I half rose. Then I sank back, forgetting everything but
that marvellous voice. Again the Lady Allegra was singing, and could I
doubt that it was for me! David's "Charmant Oiseau," and then the gay
little gavotte from "Manon."

What an astonishing repertoire--Chaminade, Schumann, Grieg, Richard
Strauss. Finally Schubert, and Schubert only, the last and the best
given, as it is meet, to him who is the master of all. The
rainbow-tinted orb of the wall mirror continued to hold my eyes; they
drooped and fell as the radiance grew fainter and yet fainter.

When I awoke Red-Fez was standing at the bedside, hot-water can in
hand. "Morning, sar," he