the oil had to be
poured on, the salad being poked and turned about so that it would be
all absorbed. Perhaps it was because he was so busy narrating the
escapades of Maltby Symmes that the old gentleman kneaded it about so
long; all the time fussing over it like a hen-partridge with her
chicks, and interrupting himself every sentence or two: "It was Lenore,
the opera star, and he gave her about two hundred thousand dollars'
worth of railroad shares. (Really, you know, romaine ought not to be
served in a bowl at all, but in a square, flat dish, so that one could
keep the ends quite dry.) And when they quarrelled, she found the old
scamp had fooled her--the shares had never been transferred. (One is
not supposed to use a fork at all, you know.) But she sued him, and he
settled with her for about half the value. (If this dressing were done
properly, there ought not to be any oil in the bottom of the dish at
all.)"

This last remark meant that the process had reached its climax--that
the long, crisp leaves were receiving their final affectionate
overturnings. While the waiter stood at respectful attention, two or
three pieces at a time were laid carefully upon the little silver plate
intended for Montague. "And now," said the triumphant host, "try it! If
it's good, it ought to be neither sweet nor bitter, but just
right."--And he watched anxiously while Montague tasted it, saying, "If
it's the least bit bitter, say so; and we'll send it out. I've told
them about it often enough before."

But it was not bitter, and so the Major proceeded to help himself,
after which the waiter whisked the bowl away. "I'm told that salad is
the one vegetable we have from the Romans," said the old boy, as he
munched at the crisp green leaves. "It's mentioned by Horace, you
know.--As I was saying, all this was in Symmes's early days. But since
his son's been grown up, he's married another chorus-girl."

After the salad the Major had another cocktail. In the beginning
Montague had noticed that his hands shook and his eyes were watery; but
now, after these copious libations, he was vigorous, and, if possible,
more full of anecdotes than ever. Montague thought that it would be a
good time to broach his inquiry, and so when the coffee had been
served, he asked, "Have you any objections to talking business after
dinner?"

"Not with you," said the Major. "Why? What is it?"

And then Montague told him about his friend's proposition, and
descri