and can no more carry
Downing Street about with him than could Albert Smith carry "China" to a
dinner-party.

And now the soup has been brought back, and the fish, somewhat cold
and mangled, to be sure, has been served to Dr. Layton; the servant
has helped him to an admirable glass of sherry, and the dinner proceeds
pleasantly enough,--not, however, without its casualties. But of these
the next chapter will tell us.

CHAPTER IX. A DINNER AT THE RECTORY

These are men who have specialities for giving admirable "little
dinners," and little dinners are unquestionably the _ne plus ultra_ of
social enjoyment. To accomplish these there are far more requirements
necessary than the world usually wots of. They are not the triumphs of
great houses, with regiments of yellow plush and gold candelabra;
they affect no vast dining-rooms, nor a private band. They are, on the
contrary, the prerogatives of moderate incomes, middle-aged or elderly
hosts, usually bachelors, with small houses, furnished in the perfection
of comfort, without any display, but where everything, from the careful
disposal of a fire-screen to the noiseless gait of the footman, shows
you that a certain supervision and discipline prevail, even though you
never hear an order and rarely see a servant.

Where these people get their cooks, I never could make out! It is easy
enough to understand that fish and soup, your sirloin and your woodcock,
could be well and carefully dressed, but who devised that exquisite
little _entree_, what genius presided over that dish of macaroni, that
omelette, or that souffle? Whence, besides, came the infinite taste
of the whole meal, with its few dishes, served in an order of artistic
elegance? And that butler, too,--how quiet, how observant, how noiseless
his ministration; how steady his decanter hand! Where did they find
_him?_ And that pale sherry, and that Chablis, and that exquisite cup of
Mocha? Don't tell me that you or I can have them all as good,--that you
know his wine-merchant, and have the receipt for his coffee. You
might as well tell me you could sing like Mario because you employ
his hairdresser. No, no; they who accomplish these things are peculiar
organizations. They have great gifts of order and system, the nicest
perceptions of taste, considerable refinement, and no small share of
sensuality. They possess a number of high qualities in miniature, and
are, so to say, "great men seen through the wrong end of a