and thin summer suit,
he sallied forth in search of dinner. He felt that he had earned a
good one, and did not intend to scrimp himself. After a moment's
deliberation, he turned into Fifth Avenue, and, at Twenty-sixth
Street, made his way through the open door of Delmonico's. He saw
with pleasure that his favorite table (the second from the corner on
the street, not too conspicuous, and yet commanding the avenue) was
vacant. He slipped into the chair which the waiter drew out for him,
and took up the bill of fare. With the sight of the menu, he felt his
flickering appetite revive; but it was still capricious, and would not
brook the thought of meat. Little-Neck clams, of course. They seemed
to convey a delicate intimation to the waiting stomach of favors to
come. Soup? No, too hot for soup. Frogs' legs a la McVickar? Yes, he
would have those, though he did not exactly know what "a la McVickar"
indicated, and felt that he should lose caste with the waiter by
inquiring. When that functionary recommended a bite of broiled
tenderloin, prepared with Madeira sauce, and the addition of fresh
mushrooms and a small sweetbread, he allowed himself to be persuaded.
An English snipe, with chicory salad and some cheese, with coffee,
completed his order. Oh, and a pint of Rudesheimer with it!

The waiter departed; and Flint, not hungry enough to be impatient,
settled back in his chair with the damp evening paper unopened beside
him. The sigh he gave was one of satisfaction, rather than regret. His
gastronomic taste was to some extent feminine. He cared as much for
the service as for the thing served, and found a carnal gratification
in the shining glass and the table linen, smoothed to the verge of
slipperiness. Really, he wondered how he could have endured the Nepaug
Inn so long.

A hand laid upon his shoulder caused him to turn his head quickly.

"Halloa, Graham! You here?"

"Yes, we sail on the 'Etruria' to-morrow,--only in town over night.
Beastly hot, isn't it? My wife is here. Come over, won't you, and let
me present you?"

Now Mr. Jonas Harrington Graham, though one of the most fashionable,
was by no means the best beloved of Flint's acquaintance; and it was
with an inward conviction of perjury that he murmured, "Most happy,
I'm sure," and made his way to the table by the centre window which
the Grahams had selected. The lady already seated there was sleek and
well appointed. Flint noticed that the people at the other ta