the
_Narcissus_ wasn't working when I left. But if you can give me half an
hour to----"

He got it. And when he shows up again in dry togs and with his face
mowed he's almost fit to mingle with the guests. It was about then that
T. Forsythe was pullin' his star act at the salad bowl. Course, when you
have only ordinary people around, you let the kitchen help do such
things. But when Forsythe is present he's asked to mix the salad
dressin'.

So there is Forsythe, wearin' a jade-green tie to match the color of the
salad bowl, surrounded by cruets and pepper grinders and paprika
bottles, and manipulatin' his own special olivewood spoon and fork as
dainty and graceful as if he was conductin' an orchestra.

"Oh, I say, Jevons," says he, signalin' the Ellinses' butler, "have
someone conduct a clove of garlic to the back veranda, slice it, and
gently rub it on a crust of fresh bread. Then bring me the bread. And do
you mind very much, Mrs. Ellins, if I have those Papa Gontier roses
removed? They clash with an otherwise perfect color scheme, and you've
no idea how sensitive I am to such jarring notes. Besides, their perfume
is so beastly obtrusive. At times I've been made quite ill by them.
Really."

"Take them away, Jevons," says Mr. Robert, smotherin' a sarcastic smile.

"Huh!" grumbles Mr. Robert. "What a rotter you are, Forsythe. If I could
only get you aboard the _Narcissus_ for a ten-day cruise! I'd introduce
you to perfumes, the sort you could lean up against. You know, when a
boat has carried mature fish for----"

"Please, Bob!" protests Forsythe. "We admit you're a hero, and that
you've been saving the country, but don't let's have the disgusting
details; at least, not when the salad dressing is at its most critical
stage."

Havin' said which, Forsythe proceeds to finish what was for him a hard
day's work.

Discussin' his likes and dislikes was Forsythe's strong hold, and, if
you could believe him, he had more finicky notions than a sanatorium
full of nervous wrecks. He positively couldn't bear the sight of this,
the touch of that, and the sound of the other thing. The rustle of a
newspaper made him so fidgety he could hardly sit still. The smell of
boiled cabbage made him faint. Someone had sent him a plaid necktie for
Christmas. He had ordered his man to pick it up with the fire-tongs and
throw it in the ash-can. Things like that.

All through luncheon we listened while Forsythe described the awful
agoni