me si on essayait d'enseigner le patinage a la
femme aux jambes de bois du boulevard," said the ministering angel to
one of my bachelor friends. One day, to my great surprise, on calling on
him I found him reading. He was not much given to poring over books,
though his education had been a very good one.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I am reading More's 'Utopia,'" he said, putting down the volume.

"What do you mean?" I remarked, pointing to the cover, displaying a
young woman bending over stew-pans.

"This is More's 'Utopia,' to me at present. It speaks of things which
will never be realized; supreme de volaille, tournedos a la poivrade,
and so forth. The book wants another chapter," he went on, "a chapter
treating of the food of besieged cities. The Dutch might have written it
centuries ago: at Leyden they were on the point of eating their left
arms, while defending themselves with their right; they could have told
us how to stew the former. If one could add a chapter to that effect,
the book might go through a hundred new editions, and the writer might
make a fortune. It would not do him much good, for he would be expected
to live up to his precepts, and not touch a morsel of that beautiful
kangaroo or elephant I saw yesterday on the Boulevard Haussmann."

At that moment a mutual acquaintance came in. He had been a lieutenant
in the Foreign Legion, and lost his right foot before Constantine.
Noticing our host's doleful looks, he inquired the cause, and we got
another spoken essay on the difficulties of the situation as connected
with the food supply. I may add that, wherever a few men were gathered
together, this became invariably the absorbing topic of conversation.

The ex-lieutenant laughed outright. "You are altogether labouring under
a mistake; there is plenty of food of a kind left, though I admit with
you that the Parisian does not know how to prepare it."

"Will you teach them?" was the query.

"I will not, because they would simply sneer at me. Feeding is simply a
matter of prejudice; and, to prove it to you, I will give you a
breakfast to-morrow morning which you will appreciate. But I am not
going to tell you of what it consists, nor will I do so until two days
after the entertainment."

We accepted the invitation, though I must confess that I was not eager
about it. Nevertheless, next day, about one, we were seated at the
hospitable board of our ex-lieutenant, who, three weeks before, had
di