seen the world, and drunk deeply
of the wine of life, there is nothing half so sweet in the whole of his
existence as a good dinner. "A hard heart and a good digestion will
make any man happy." So said Talleyrand, a cynic if you like, but a man
who knew the temper of his day and generation. Ovid wrote about the art
of love--Brillat Savarin, of the art of dining; yet, I warrant you, the
gastronomical treatise of the brilliant Frenchman is more widely read
than the passionate songs of the Roman poet. Who does not value as the
sweetest in the whole twenty-four the hour when, seated at an
artistically-laid table, with delicately-cooked viands, good wines, and
pleasant company, all the cares and worries of the day give place to a
delightful sense of absolute enjoyment? Dinner with the English people
is generally a very dreary affair, and there is a heaviness about the
whole thing which communicates itself to the guests, who eat and drink
with a solemn persistence, as though they were occupied in fulfilling
some sacred rite. But there are men--alas! few and far between--who
possess the rare art of giving good dinners--good in the sense of
sociality as well as in that of cookery.

Mark Frettlby was one of these rare individuals--he had an innate
genius for getting pleasant people together--people, who, so to speak,
dovetailed into one another. He had an excellent cook, and his wines
were irreproachable, so that Brian, in spite of his worries, was glad
that he had accepted the invitation. The bright gleam of the silver,
the glitter of glass, and the perfume of flowers, all collected under
the subdued crimson glow of a pink-shaded lamp, which hung from the
ceiling, could not but give him a pleasurable sensation.

On one side of the dining-room were the French windows opening on to
the verandah, and beyond appeared the vivid green of the trees, and the
dazzling colours of the flowers, somewhat tempered by the soft hazy
glow of the twilight.

Brian had made himself as respectable as possible under the odd
circumstances of dining in his riding-dress, and sat next to Madge,
contentedly sipping his wine, and listening to the pleasant chatter
which was going on around him.

Felix Rolleston was in great spirits, the more so as Mrs Rolleston was
at the further end of the table, hidden from his view.

Julia Featherweight sat near Mr. Frettlby, and chatted to him so
persistently that he wished she would become possessed of a dumb dev