he chicken had been eaten to
the drumstick and the cutlets to the bone. Nothing remained but a huge
Trifle, of chromatic and threatening aspect, on which no one had
ventured to embark. Coffee was just coming, when the servant entered
with an anxious expression, and murmured to the hostess that Monsieur de
Petitpois--a newly-arrived attache--had come, and seemed to expect
luncheon. The hostess grasped the situation in an instant, and issued
her commands with a promptitude and a directness which the Duke of
Wellington could not have surpassed. "Clear everything away, but leave
the Trifle. Then show M. de Petitpois in." Enter De Petitpois.
"Delighted to see you. Quite right. Always at home at Sunday luncheon.
Pray come and sit here and have some Trifle. It is our national Sunday
dish." Poor young De Petitpois, actuated by the same principle which
made the Prodigal desire the husks, filled himself with spongecake,
jam, and whipped cream; and went away looking rather pale. If he kept a
journal, he no doubt noted the English Sunday as one of our most curious
institutions, and "Le Trifle" as its crowning horror.

Supper is a word of very different significances. There is the Ball
Supper, which I have described in a previous chapter. There is the
Supper after the Missionary Meeting in the country, when "The Deputation
from the Parent Society" is entertained with cold beef, boiled eggs, and
cocoa. There is the diurnal Supper, fruitful parent of our national
crudities, eaten by the social class that dines at one; and this Supper
(as was disclosed at a recent inquest) may consist of steak, tomatoes,
and tea.

And yet, again, there is the Theatrical Supper, which, eaten in
congenial company after _Patience_ or _The Whip_, is our nearest
approach to the "Nights and Suppers of the Gods." This kind of supper
has a niche of its own in my retrospects. It was my privilege when first
I came to London to know Lady Burdett-Coutts, famous all over the world
as a philanthropist, and also, in every tone and gesture, a survival
from the days when great station and great manner went together. Lady
Burdett-Coutts was an enthusiastic devotee of the drama; and, when her
Evening Parties were breaking up, she would gently glide round the great
rooms in Stratton Street, and say to a departing guest:

"I hope you need not go just yet. I am expecting Mr. Irving to supper
after the play, and I am asking a few friends to meet him."

As far as I know,