way to the luncheon table as a servant announced that function.

For it was certainly a function with Portlaw; all eating was more or
less of a ceremony, and dinner rose to the dignity of a rite.

"I can't imagine what that telegram--"

"Forget it!" snapped Portlaw; "do you want to infect my luncheon? When a
man lunches he ought to give his entire mind to it. Talk about your lost
arts!--the art of eating scarcely survives at all. Find it again and you
revive that other lost art of prandial conversation. Digestion's not
possible without conversation. Hamil, you look at your claret in a funny
way."

"I was admiring the colour where the sun strikes through," said the
latter, amused.

"Oh! I thought you were remembering that claret is temporarily
unfashionable. That's part of the degeneracy of the times. There never
was and never will be any wine to equal it when it has the body of a
Burgundy and the bouquet of wild-grape blossoms. Louis," cocking his
heavy red face and considering a morsel of duck, "what is your opinion
concerning the proper melange for that plumcot salad dressing?"

"They say," said Malcourt gravely, "that when it's mixed, a current of
electricity passed through it gives it a most astonishing flavour--"

"What!"

"So they say at the Stuyvesant Club."

Portlaw's eyes bulged; Hamil had to bend his head low over his plate,
but Malcourt's bland impudence remained unperturbed.

"Good God!" muttered Portlaw; "Hamil, did you ever hear of passing
electricity through a salad dressing composed of olive oil, astragon,
Arequipa pepper, salt, Samara mustard, essence of anchovy, chives,
distilled fresh mushrooms, truffles pickled in 1840 port--_did_ you?"

"No," said Hamil, "I never did."

For a while silence settled upon the table while Portlaw struggled to
digest mentally the gastronomic suggestion offered by Malcourt.

"I could send to town for a battery," he said hesitatingly; "or--there's
my own electric plant--"

Malcourt yawned. There was not much fun in exploiting such a man.
Besides, Hamil had turned uncomfortable, evidently considering it the
worst of taste on Malcourt's part.

"What am I to do about that telegram?" he asked, lighting a cigarette.

Portlaw, immersed in sauce and the electrical problem, adjusted his mind
with an effort to this other and less amusing question.

"Wire for particulars and sit tight," advised Portlaw. "We've just three
now for 'Preference,' and if you go kitin