mantova tart

MANTUA TART

(Torta Mantovana)

Flour, six ounces.
Sugar, six ounces.
Butter, five ounces.
Sweet almonds and pine-seeds, two ounces.
One whole egg.
Four egg-yolks.
A taste of lemon peel.

First work well with a ladle the eggs with the sugar, then pour the flour little by little, still stirring, and finally the butter, previously melted in a double steamer (bain-marie). Put the mixture in a pie-dish greased with butter and sprinkled with flour or bread crumbs ground. On top put the almonds and the pine-seeds. Cut the latter in half and cut the almonds, previously skinned in warm water, each in eight or ten pieces. This tart must not be thicker than one inch, so that it can dry well in the oven, which must not be too hot
.

Sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve cold.them for refusing to cook if they dislike cooking, and can find other work as light and as well paid; but, things being as they are, I would suggest that we set to work somehow to make ourselves independent of cooks."

"That 'somehow' is the crux, my dear Livia," said Mrs. Sinclair. "I have a plan of my own, but I dare not breathe it, for I'm sure Mrs. Gradinger would call it 'anti-social,' whatever that may mean."

"I should imagine that it is a term which might be applied to any scheme which robs society of the ministrations of its cooks," said Sir John.

"I have heard mathematicians declare that what is true of the whole is true of its parts," said the Marchesa. "I daresay it is, but I never stopped to inquire. I will amplify on my own account, and lay down that what is true of the parts must be true of the whole. I'm sure that sounds quite right. Now I, as a unit of society, am independent of cooks because I can cook myself, and if all the other units were independent, society itself would be independent—ecco!"

"To speak in this tone of a serious science like Euclid seems rather frivolous," said Mrs. Gradinger. "I may observe—" but here mercifully the observation was checked by the entry of Mrs. St. Aubyn Fothergill.

She was a handsome woman, always dominated by an air of serious preoccupation, sumptuously, but not tastefully dressed. In the social struggle upwards, wealth was the only weapon she possessed, and wealth without dexterity has been known to fail before this. She made efforts, indeed, to imitate Mrs. Sinclair in the elegancies of menage, and to  pose as a woman of mind after the pattern of Mrs. Gradinger; but the task first named required too much tact, and the other powers of endurance which she did not possess.

"You'll have some tea, Mrs. Fothergill?" said the Marchesa. "It's so good of you to have come."

"No, really, I can't take any tea; in fact, I couldn't take any lunch out of vexation at having to put you off, my dear Marchesa."

"Oh, these accidents will occur. We were just discussing the best way of getting round them," said the Marchesa. "Now, dear,"—speaking to Mrs. Sinclair—"let's have your plan. Mrs. Gradinger has fastened like a leech on the Canon and Mrs. Wilding, and won't hear a word of what you have to say."

"Well, my scheme is just an amplification of your mathematical illustrations, that we should all learn to cook for ourselves. I regard it no longer as impossible, or even difficult, since you have informed us that you are a mistress of the art. We'll start a new school of cookery, and you shall teach us all you know."

"Ah, my dear Laura, you are like certain English women in the hunting field. You are inclined to rush your fences," said the Marchesa with a deprecatory gesture. "And just look at the people gathered here in this  room. Wouldn't they—to continue the horsey metaphor—be rather an awkward team to drive?"

"Not at all, if you had them in suitable surroundings. Now, supposing some beneficent millionaire were to lend us for a month or so a nice country house, we might install you there as Mistress of the stewpans, and sit at your feet as disciples," said Mrs. Sinclair.

"The idea seems first-rate," said Van der Roet; "and I suppose, if we are good little boys and girls, and learn our lessons properly, we may be allowed to taste some of our own dishes."

"Might not that lead to a confusion between rewards and punishments?" said Sir John.

"If ever it comes to that," said Miss Macdonnell with a mischievous glance out of a pair of dark, flashing Celtic eyes, "I hope that our mistress will inspect carefully all pupils' work before we are asked to eat it. I don't want to sit down to another of Mr. Van der Roet's Japanese salads made of periwinkles and wallflowers."

"And we must first catch our millionaire," said the Colonel.

During these remarks Mrs. Fothergill had been standing "with parted lips and straining eyes," the eyes of one who is seeking to "cut in." Now came her chance. "What a delightful idea dear Mrs. Sinclair's is. We have been dreadfully extravagant this year over buying pictures, and have doubled our charitable subscriptions, but I believe I can still promise to act in a humble way the part of Mrs. Sinclair's millionaire. We have just finished doing up the 'Laurestinas,' a little place we bought last year, and it is quite at your service, Marchesa, as soon as you liketo occupy it."

This unlooked-for proposition almost took away the Marchesa's breath. "Ah, Mrs. Fothergill," she said, "it was Mrs. Sinclair's plan, not mine. She kindly wishes to turn me into a cook for I know not how long, just at the hottest season of the year, a fate I should hardly have chosen for myself."

"My dear, it would be a new sensation, and one you would enjoy beyond everything. I am sure it is a scheme every one here will hail with acclamation," said Mrs. Sinclair. All other conversation had now ceased, and the eyes of the rest of the company were fixed on the speaker. "Ladies and gentlemen," she went on, "you have heard my suggestion, and you have heard Mrs. Fothergill's most kind and opportune offer of her country house as the seat of our school of cookery. Such an opportunity is one in ten thousand. Surely all of us—-even the Marchesa—must see that it is one not to be neglected."

"I approve thoroughly," said Mrs. Gradinger; "the acquisition of knowledge, even in so material a field as that of cookery, is always a clear gain."

"It will give Gradinger a chance to put in a couple of days at Ascot," whispered Van der Roet.

"Where Mrs. Gradinger leads, all must follow," said Miss Macdonnell. "Take the sense of the meeting, Mrs. Sinclair, before the Marchesa has time to enter a protest."

"And is the proposed instructress to have no voice in the matter?" said the Marchesa, laughing.

"None at all, except to consent," said Mrs. Sinclair; "you are going to be absolute mistress over us for the next fortnight, so you surely might obey just this once."

"You have been denouncing one of our cherished institutions, Marchesa," said Lady Considine, "so I consider you are bound to help us to replace the British cook by something better."

"If Mrs. Sinclair has set her heart on this interesting experiment. You may as well consent at once, Marchesa," said the Colonel, "and teach us how to cook, and—what may be a harder task—to teach us to eat what other aspirants may have cooked."

"If this scheme really comes off," said Sir John, "I would suggest that the Marchesa should always be provided with a plate of her own up her sleeve—if I may use such an expression—so that any void in the menu, caused by failure on the part of the under-skilled or over-ambitious amateur, may be filled by what will certainly be a chef-d'oeuvre."

"I shall back up Mrs. Sinclair's proposition with all my power," said Mrs. Wilding. "The Canon will be in residence at Martlebridge for the next month, and I would much rather be learning cookery under the Marchesa than staying with my brother-in-law at Ealing."

"You'll have to do it, Marchesa," said Van der Roet; "when a new idea catches on like this, there's no resisting it."

"Well, I consent on one condition—that my rule shall be absolute," said the Marchesa, "and I begin my career as an autocrat by giving Mrs. Fothergill a list of the educational machinery I shall want, and  commanding her to have them all ready by Tuesday morning, the day on which I declare the school open."

A chorus of applause went up as soon as the Marchesa ceased speaking.

"Everything shall be ready," said Mrs. Fothergill, radiant with delight that her offer had been accepted, "and I will put in a full staff of servants selected from our three other establishments."

"Would it not be as well to send the cook home for a holiday?" said the Colonel. "It might be safer, and lead to less broth being spoilt."

"It seems," said Sir John, "that we shall be ten in number, and I would therefore propose that, after an illustrious precedent, we limit our operations to ten days. Then if we each produce one culinary poem a day we shall, at the end of our time, have provided the world with a hundred new reasons for enjoying life, supposing, of course, that we have no failures. I propose, therefore, that our society be called the 'New Decameron.'"

"Most appropriate," said Miss Macdonnell, "especially as it owes its origin to an outbreak of plague—the plague in the kitchen."

The First Day

On the Tuesday morning the Marchesa travelled down to the "Laurestinas," where she found that Mrs. Fothergill had been as good as her word. Everything was in perfect order. The Marchesa had notified to her pupils that they must report themselves that same evening at dinner, and she took down with her her maid, one of those marvellous Italian servants who combine fidelity with efficiency in a degree strange to the denizens of more progressive lands. Now, with Angelina's assistance, she proposed to set before the company their first dinner all'Italiana, and the last they would taste without having participated in the preparation. The real work was to begin the following morning.

The dinner was both a revelation and a surprise to the majority of the company. All were well travelled, and all had eaten of the mongrel French dishes given at the "Grand" hotels of the principal Italian cities, and some of them, in search of adventures, had dined at London restaurants with Italian names over the doors, where—with certain honourable exceptions—the cookery was French, and not of the best, certain Italian plates being included in the carte for a regular clientele, dishes which would always be passed over by the English investigator, because he now read, or tried to read, their names for the first time. Few of the Marchesa's pupils had ever wandered away from the arid table d'hote in Milan, or Florence, or Rome, in search of the ristorante at which the better class of townsfolk were wont to take their colazione. Indeed, whenever an Englishman does break fresh ground in this direction, he rarely finds sufficient presence of mind to controvert the suggestions of the smiling minister who, having spotted his Inglese, at once marks down an omelette aux fines herbes and a biftek aux pommes as the only food such a creature can consume. Thus the culinary experiences of Englishmen in Italy have led to the perpetuation of the legend that the traveller can indeed find decent food in the large towns, "because the cooking there is all French, you know," but that, if he should deviate from the beaten track, unutterable horrors, swimming in oil and reeking with garlic, would be his portion. Oil and garlic are in popular English belief the inseparable accidents of Italian cookery, which is supposed to gather its solitary claim to individuality from the never-failing presence of these admirable, but easily abused, gifts of Nature.

"You have given us a delicious dinner, Marchesa," said Mrs. Wilding as the coffee appeared. "You mustn't think me captious in my remarks—indeed it would be most ungracious to look a gift-dinner in the—What are you laughing at, Sir John? I suppose I've done something awful with my metaphors—mixed them up somehow."

"Everything Mrs. Wilding mixes will be mixed admirably, as admirably, say, as that  sauce which was served with the Manzo alla Certosina," Sir John replied.

"That is said in your best style, Sir John," replied Mrs. Wilding; "but what I was going to remark was, that I, as a poor parson's wife, shall ask for some instruction in inexpensive cooking before we separate. The dinner we have just eaten is surely only within the reach of rich people."

"I wish some of the rich people I dine with could manage now and then to reach a dinner as good," said the Colonel.

"I believe it is a generally received maxim, that if you want a truth to be accepted you must repeat the same in season and out, whenever you have the opportunity," said the Marchesa. "The particular truth I have now in mind is the fact that Italian cookery is the cookery of a poor nation, of people who have scant means wherewith to purchase the very inferior materials they must needs work with; and that they produce palatable food at all is, I maintain, a proof that they bring high intelligence to the task. Italian culinary methods have been developed in the struggle when the cook, working with an allowance upon which an English cook would resign at once, has succeeded by careful manipulation and the study of flavouring in turning out excellent dishes made of fish and meat confessedly inferior. Now, if we loosen the purse-strings a little, and use the best English materials, I affirm that we shall achieve a result excellent enough to prove that Italian cookery is worthy to take its stand beside its great French rival. I am glad Mrs. Wilding has given me an opportunity to impress upon you all that its main characteristics are simplicity and cheapness, and I can assure her that, even if she should reproduce the most costly dishes of our course, she will not find any serious increase in her weekly bills. When I use the word simplicity, I allude, of course, to everyday cooking. Dishes of luxury in any school require elaboration, care, and watchfulness."

Menu—Dinner {*}

  Zuppa d'uova alla Toscana.     Tuscan egg-soup.
  Sogliole alla Livornese.       Sole alla Livornese.
  Manzo alla Certosina.          Fillet of beef, Certosina sauce.
  Minuta alla Milanese.          Chickens' livers alla Milanese.
  Cavoli fiodi ripieni.          Cauliflower with forcemeat.
  Cappone arrosto con insalata.  Roast capon with salad.
  Zabajone.                      Spiced custard.
  Uova al pomidoro.              Eggs and tomatoes.

* The recipes for the dishes contained in all these menus
     will be found in the second part of the book.  The limits of
     the seasons have necessarily been ignored.

The Second Day

Wednesday's luncheon was anticipated with some curiosity, or even searchings of heart, as in it would appear the first-fruits of the hand of the amateur. The Marchesa wisely restricted it to two dishes, for the compounding of which she requisitioned the services of Lady Considine, Mrs. Sinclair, and the Colonel. The others she sent to watch Angelina and her circle while they were preparing the vegetables and the dinner entrees. After the luncheon dishes had been discussed, they were both proclaimed admirable. It was a true bit of Italian finesse on the part of the Marchesa to lay a share of the responsibility of the first meal upon the Colonel, who was notoriously the most captious and the hardest to please of all the company; and she did even more than make him jointly responsible, for she authorised him to see to the production of a special curry of his own invention, the recipe for which he always carried in his pocket-book, thus letting India share with Italy in the honours of the first luncheon.

"My congratulations to you on your curry, Colonel Trestrail," said Miss Macdonnell. "You haven't followed the English fashion of flavouring a curry by emptying the pepper-pot into the dish?"

"Pepper properly used is the most admirable of condiments," the Colonel said.

"Why this association of the Colonel and pepper?" said Van der Roet. "In this society we ought to be as nice in our phraseology as in our flavourings, and be careful to eschew the incongruous. You are coughing, Mrs. Wilding. Let me give you some water."

"I think it must have been one of those rare grains of the Colonel's pepper, for you must have a little pepper in a curry, mustn't you, Colonel? Though, as Miss Macdonnell says, English cooks generally overdo it."

"Vander is in one of his pleasant witty moods," said the Colonel, "but I fancy I know as much about the use of pepper as he does about the use of oil colours; and now we have, got upon art criticism, I may remark, my dear Vander, I have been reminded that you have been poaching on my ground. I saw a landscape of yours the other day, which looked as if some of my curry powder had got into the sunset. I mean the one poor blind old Wilkins bought at your last show."

"Ah, but that sunset was an inspiration, Colonel, and consequently beyond your comprehension."

"It is easy to talk of inspiration," said Sir John, "and, perhaps, now that we are debating a matter of real importance, we might spend our time more profitably than in discussing what is and what is not a good picture. Some inspiration has been brought into our symposium, I venture to affirm that the brain which devised and the hand which executed the Tenerumi di Vitello we have just tasted, were both of them inspired. In the construction of this dish there is to be recognised a breath of the same afflatus which gave us the Florentine campanile, and the Medici tombs, and the portrait of Monna Lisa. When we stand before any one of these masterpieces, we realise at a glance how keen must have been the primal insight, and how strenuous the effort necessary for the evolution of so consummate an achievement; and, with the savour of the Tenerumi di Vitello still fresh, I feel that it deserves to be added to the list of Italian capo lavori. Now, as I was not fortunate enough to be included in the pupils' class this morning, I must beg the next time the dish is presented to us—and I imagine all present will hail its renaissance with joy—that I may be allowed to lend a hand, or even a finger, in its preparation."

"Veal, with the possible exception of Lombard beef, is the best meat we get in Italy," said the Marchesa, "so an Italian cook, when he wants to produce a meat dish of the highest excellence, generally turns to veal as a basis. I must say that the breast of veal, which is the part we had for lunch today, is a somewhat insipid dish when cooked English fashion. That we have been able to put it before you in more palatable form, and to win for it the approval of such a connoisseur as Sir John Oglethorpe, is largely owing to the judicious use of that Italian terror—more dire to many English than paper-money or brigands—garlic."

"The quantity used was infinitesimal," said Mrs. Sinclair, "but it seems to have been enough to subdue what I once heard Sir John describe as the pallid solidity of the innocent calf."

"I fear the vein of incongruity in our discourse, lately noted by Van der Roet, is not quite exhausted," said Sir John. "The Colonel was up in arms on account of a too intimate association of his name with pepper, and now Mrs. Sinclair has bracketed me with the calf, a most useful animal, I grant, but scarcely one I should have chosen as a yokefellow; but this is a digression. To return to our veal. I had a notion that garlic had something to do with the triumph of the Tenerumi, and, this being the case, I think it would be well if the Marchesa were to give us a dissertation on the use of this invaluable product."

"As Mrs. Sinclair says, the admixture of garlic in the dish in question was a very small one, and English people somehow never seem to realise that garlic must always be used sparingly. The chief positive idea they have of its characteristics is that which they gather from the odour of a French or Italian crowd of peasants at a railway station. The effect of garlic, eaten in lumps as an accompaniment to bread and cheese, is naturally awful, but garlic used as it should be used is the soul, the divine essence, of cookery. The palate delights in it without being able to identify it, and the surest proof of its charm is manifested by the flatness and insipidity which will infallibly characterise any dish usually flavoured with it, if by chance this dish should be prepared without it. The cook who can employ it successfully will be found to possess the delicacy of perception, the accuracy of judgment, and the dexterity of hand, which go to the formation of a great artist. It is a primary maxim, and one which cannot be repeated too often, that garlic must never be cut up and used as part of the material of any dish. One small incision should be made in the clove, which should be put into the dish during the process of cooking, and allowed to remain there until the cook's palate gives warning that flavour enough has been extracted. Then it must be taken out at once. This rule does not apply in equal degree to the use of the onion, the large mild varieties of which may be cooked and eaten in many excellent bourgeois dishes; but in all fine cooking, where the onion flavour is wanted, the same treatment which I have prescribed for garlic must be followed."

The Marchesa gave the Colonel and Lady Considine a holiday that afternoon, and requested Mrs. Gradinger and Van der Roet to attend in the kitchen to help with the dinner. In the first few days of the session the main portion of the work naturally fell upon the Marchesa and Angelina, and in spite of the inroads made upon their time by the necessary directions to the neophytes, and of the occasional eccentricities of the neophytes' energies, the dinners and luncheons were all that could be desired. The Colonel was not quite satisfied with the flavour of one particular soup, and Mrs. Gradinger was of opinion that one of the entrees, which she wanted to superintend herself, but which the Marchesa handed over to Mrs. Sinclair, had a great deal too much butter in its composition. Her conscience revolted at the action of consuming in one dish enough butter to solace the breakfast-table of an honest working man for two or three days; but the faintness of these criticisms seemed to prove that every one was well satisfied with the rendering of the menu of the day.

Menu—Lunch

  Tenerumi di Vitello.          Breast of veal.
  Piccione alla minute.         Pigeons, braized with liver, &c.
  Curry

Menu—Dinner

  Zuppa alla nazionale.         Soup alla nazionale.
  Salmone alla Genovese.        Salmon alla Genovese.
  Costolette alla Costanza.     Mutton cutlets alla Costanza.
  Fritto misto alla Villeroy.   Lamb's fry alla Villeroy.
  Lattughe al sugo.             Stuffed Lettuce.
  Dindo arrosto alla Milanese.  Roast turkey alla Milanese.
  Crema montata alle fragole.   Strawberry cream.
  Tartufi alla Dino.            Truffles alla Dino.

The Third Day

"I observe, dear Marchesa," said Mrs. Fothergill at breakfast on Thursday morning, "that we still follow the English fashion in our breakfast dishes. I have a notion that, in this particular especially, we gross English show our inferiority to the more spirituelles nations of the Continent, and I always feel a new being after the light meal of delicious coffee and crisp bread and delicate butter the first morning I  awake in dear Paris."

"I wonder how it happens, then, that two goes of fish, a plateful of omelette, and a round and a half of toast and marmalade are necessary to repair the waste of tissue in dear England?" Van der Roet whispered to Miss Macdonnell.

"It must be the gross air of England or the gross nature of the—"

The rest of Miss Macdonnell's remark was lost, as the Marchesa cried out in answer to Mrs. Fothergill, "But why should we have anything but English breakfast dishes in England? The defects of English cookery are manifest enough, but breakfast fare is not amongst them. In these England stands supreme; there is nothing to compare with them, and they possess the crowning merit of being entirely compatible with English life. I cannot say whether it may be the effect of the crossing, or of the climate on this side, or that the air of England is charged with some subtle stimulating quality, given off in the rush and strain of strenuous national life, but the fact remains that as soon as I find myself across the Channel I want an English breakfast. It seems that I am more English than certain of the English themselves, and I am sorry that Mrs. Fothergill has been deprived of her French roll and butter. I will see that you have it to-morrow, Mrs. Fothergill, and to make the illusion complete, I will order it to be sent to your room."

"Oh no, Marchesa, that would be giving too much trouble, and I am sure you want all the help in the house to carry out the service as exquisitely as you do," said Mrs. Fothergill hurriedly, and blushing as well as her artistic complexion would allow.

"I fancy," said Mrs. Sinclair, "that foreigners are taking to English breakfasts as well as English clothes. I noticed when I was last in Milan that almost every German or Italian ate his two boiled eggs for breakfast, the sign whereby the Englishman used to be marked for a certainty."

"The German would probably call for boiled eggs when abroad on account of the impossibility of getting such things in his own country. No matter how often you send to the kitchen for properly boiled eggs in Germany, the result is always the same cold slush," said Mrs. Wilding; "and I regret to find that the same plague is creeping into the English hotels which are served by German waiters."

"That is quite true," said the Marchesa; "but in England we have no time to concern ourselves with mere boiled eggs, delicious as they are. The roll of delicacies is long enough, or even too long without them. When I am in England, I always lament that we have only seven days a week and one breakfast a day, and when I am in Italy I declare that the reason why the English have overrun the world is because they eat such mighty breakfasts. Considering how good the dishes are, I wonder the breakfasts are not mightier than they are."

"It always strikes me that our national barrenness of ideas appears as plainly in our breakfasts as anywhere," said Mrs. Gradinger. "There is a monotony about them which—"

"Monotony!" interrupted the Colonel. "Why, I could dish you up a fresh breakfast  every day for a month. Your conservative tendencies must be very strong, Mrs. Gradinger, if they lead you to this conclusion."

"Conservative! On the contrary, I—that is, my husband—always votes for Progressive candidates at every election," said Mrs. Gradinger, dropping into her platform intonation, at the sound of which consternation arose in every breast. "I have, moreover, a theory that we might reform our diet radically, as well as all other institutions; but before I expound this, I should like to say a few words on the waste of wholesome food which goes on. For instance, I went for a walk in the woods yesterday afternoon, where I came upon a vast quantity of fungi which our ignorant middle classes would pronounce to be poisonous, but which I—in common with every child of the intelligent working-man educated in a board school where botany is properly taught—knew to be good for food."

"Excuse me one moment," said Sir John, "but do they really use board-school children as tests to see whether toadstools are poisonous or not?"

"I do not think anything I said justified such an inference," said Mrs. Gradinger in the same solemn drawl; "but I may remark that the children are taught from illustrated manuals accurately drawn and coloured. Well, to come back to the fungi, I took the trouble to measure the plot on which they were growing, and found it just ten yards square. The average weight of edible fungus per square yard was just an ounce, or a hundred and twelve pounds per acre. Now, there must be at least twenty millions  of acres in the United Kingdom capable of producing these fungi without causing the smallest damage to any other crop, wherefore it seems that, owing to our lack of instruction, we are wasting some million tons of good food per annum; and I may remark that this calculation pre-supposes, that each fungus springs only once in the season; but I have reason to believe that certain varieties would give five or six gatherings between May and October, so the weight produced would be enormously greater than the quantity I have named."

Here Mrs. Gradinger paused to finish her coffee, which was getting cold, and before she could resume, Sir John had taken up the parole. "I think the smaller weight will suffice for the present, until the taste for strange fungi has developed, or the pressure of population increased. And before stimulating a vastly increased supply, it will be necessary to extirpate the belief that all fungi, except the familiar mushroom, are poisonous, and perhaps to appoint an army of inspectors to see that only the right sort are brought to market."

"Yes, and that will give pleasant and congenial employment to those youths of the working-classes who are ambitious of a higher career than that of their fathers," said Lady Considine, "and the ratepayers will rejoice, no doubt, that they are participating in the general elevation of the  masses."

"Perhaps Mrs. Gradinger will gather a few of her less deadly fungi, and cook them and eat them herself, pour encourager les autres," said Miss Macdonnell. "Then, if she doesn't die in agonies, we may all forswear beef and live on toadstools."

"I certainly will," said Mrs. Gradinger; "and before we rise from table I should like—"

"I fear we must hear your remarks at dinner, Mrs. Gradinger," said the Marchesa. "Time is getting on, and some of the dishes to-day are rather elaborate, so now to the kitchen."

Menu—Lunch.

  Risotto alla Genovese.                  Savoury rice.
  Pollo alla Villereccia.                 Chicken alla Villereccia.
  Lingue di Castrato alla cucinira.       Sheeps' tongues alla cucinira.

  Menu—Dinner

  Zuppa alla Veneziana.                   Venetian soup.
  Sogliole alla giardiniera.              Sole with Vegetables.
  Timballo alla Romana.                   Roman pie.
  Petto di Castrato alla salsa di burro.  Breast of mutton with butter sauce.
  Verdure miste.                          Mixed vegetables.
  Crema rappresa.                         Coffee cream.
  Ostriche alla Veneziana.                Oyster savoury.

The Fourth Day

THE Colonel was certainly the most severely critical member of the company. Up to the present juncture he had been sparing of censure, and sparing of praise likewise, but on this day, after lunch, he broke forth into loud praise of the dish of beef which appeared in the menu. After specially commending this dish he went on—

"It seems to me that the dinner of yesterday and to-day's lunch bear the cachet of a fresh and admirable school of cookery. In saying this I don't wish to disparage the traditions which have governed the preparation of the delicious dishes put before us up to that date, which I have referred to as the parting of the ways, the date when the palate of the expert might detect a new hand upon the keys, a phrase once employed, I believe, with regard to some man who wrote poetry. To meet an old friend, or a thoroughly tested dish, is always pleasant, but old friends die or fall out, and old favourite dishes may come to pall at last; and for this reason I hold that the day which brings us a new friend or a new dish ought to be marked with white chalk."

"And I think some wise man once remarked," said Sir John, "that the discovery of a dish is vastly more important than the discovery of a star, for we have already as many stars as we can possibly require, but we can never have too many dishes."

"I was wondering whether any one would detect the variations I made yesterday, but I need not have wondered, with such an expert at table as Colonel Trestrail," said the Marchesa with a laugh. "Well, the Colonel has found me out; but from the tone of his remarks I think I may hope for his approval. At any rate, I'm sure he won't move a vote of censure."

"If he does, we'll pack him off to town, and sentence him to dine at his club every day for a month," said Lady Considine.

"What crime has this particular club committed?" said Mrs. Sinclair in a whisper.

"Vote of censure! Certainly not," said the Colonel, with an angry ring in his voice. Mrs. Sinclair did not love him, and had calculated accurately the carrying power of her whisper. "That would be the basest ingratitude. I must, however, plead guilty to an attack of curiosity, and therefore I beg you, Marchesa, to let us into the secret of your latest inspiration."

"Its origin was commonplace enough," said the Marchesa, "but in a way interesting. Once upon a time—more years ago than I care to remember—I was strolling about the Piazza Navona in Rome, and amusing myself by going from one barrow to another, and turning over the heaps of rubbish with which they were stocked. All the while I was innocently plagiarising that fateful walk of Browning's round the Riccardi Palace in Florence, the day when he bought for a lira the Romana homocidiorum. The world knows what was the outcome of Browning's purchase, but it will probably never fathom the full effect of mine. How do his lines run?"

"These
    I picked the book from.  Five compeers in flank
    Stood left and right of it as tempting more—
    A dog's-eared Spicilegium, the fond tale
    O' the frail one of the Flower, by young Dumas,
    Vulgarised Horace for the use of schools,
    The Life, Death, Miracles of Saint Somebody,
    Saint Somebody Else, his Miracles, Death and Life."

"Well, the choice which lay before me on one particular barrow was fully as wide, or perhaps wider than that which met the poet's eye, but after I had espied a little yellow paper-covered book with the title La Cucina Partenopea, overo il Paradiso dei gastronomi, I looked no farther. What infinite possibilities of pleasure might lie hidden under such a name. I secured it, together with the Story of Barlaam and Josaphat, for thirty-five centesimi, and handed over the coins to the hungry-eyed old man in charge, who regretted, I am sure, when he saw the eager look upon my face, that he had not marked the books a lira at least. I should now be a rich woman if I had spent all the money I have spent as profitably as those seven sold. Besides being a master in the art of cookery, the author was a moral philosopher as well; and he addresses his reader in prefatory words which bespeak a profound knowledge of life. He writes: 'Though the time of man here on earth is passed in a never-ending turmoil, which must make him often curse the moment when he opened his eyes on such a world; though life itself must often become irksome or even intolerable, nevertheless, by God's blessing, one supreme consolation remains for this wretched body of ours. I allude to that moment when, the forces being spent and the stomach craving support, the wearied mortal sits down to face a good dinner. Here is to be found an effectual balm for the ills of life: something to drown all remembrance of our ill-humours, the worries of business, or even family quarrels. In sooth, it is only at table that a man may bid the devil fly away with Solomon and all his wisdom, and give himself up to an earthly delight, which is a pleasure and a profit at the same time.'"

"The circumstances under which this precious book was found seem to suggest a  culinary poem on the model of the 'Ring and the Book,"' said Mrs. Sinclair, "or we might deal with the story in practical shape by letting every one of us prepare the same dish. I fancy the individual renderings of the same recipe would vary quite as widely as the versions of the unsavoury story set forth in Mr. Browning's little poem."

"I think we had better have a supplementary day for a trial of the sort Mrs. Sinclair suggests," said Miss Macdonnell. "I speak with the memory of a preparation of liver I tasted yesterday in the kitchen—one of the dishes which did not appear at dinner."

"That is rather hard on the Colonel," said Van der Roet; "he did his best, and now, see how hard he is trying to look as if he didn't know what you are alluding to!"

"I never in all my life—" the Colonel began; but the Marchesa, fearing a storm, interfered. "I have a lot more to tell you about my little Neapolitan book," she went on, "and I will begin by saying that, for the  future, we cannot do better than make free use of it. The author opens with an announcement that he means to give exact quantities for every dish, and then, like a true Neapolitan, lets quantities go entirely, and adopts the rule-of-thumb system. And I must say I always find the question of quantities a difficult one. Some books give exact measures, each dish being reckoned enough for four persons, with instructions to increase the measures in proportion to the additional number of diners but here a rigid rule is impossible, for a dish which is to serve by itself, as a supper or a lunch, must necessarily be bigger than one which merely fills one place in a dinner menu. Quantities can be given approximately in many cases, but flavouring must always be a question of individual taste. Latitude must be allowed, for all cooks who can turn out distinguished work will be found to be endowed with imagination, and these, being artists, will never consent to follow a rigid rule of quantity. To put it briefly, cooks who need to be told everything, will never cook properly, even if they be told more than everything. And after all, no one takes seriously the quantities given by the chef of a millionaire or a prince; witness the cook of the Prince de Soubise, who demanded fifty hams for the sauces and garnitures of a single supper, and when the Prince protested that there could not possibly be found space for them all on the table, offered to put them all into a glass bottle no bigger than his thumb. Some of Francatelli's quantities are also prodigious, as, for instance, when to make a simple glaze he calls for three pounds of gravy beef, the best part of a ham, a knuckle of veal, an old hen, and two partridges."

Menu—Lunch

  Maccheroni al sugillo.               Macaroni with sausage and tomatoes.
  Manzo in insalata.                   Beef, pressed and marinated.
  Lingue di vitello all'Italiana.      Calves' tongues.

Menu—Dinner.

  Zuppa alla Modanese.                 Modenese soup.
  Merluzzo in salamoia.                Cod with sauce piquante.
  Pollastro in istufa di pomidoro.     Stewed chicken with tomatoes.
  Porcelletto farcito alla Corradino.  Stuffed suckling pig.
  Insalata alla Navarino.              Navarino salad.
  Bodino di semolino.                  Semolina pudding.
  Frittura di cocozze.                 Fried cucumber.

The Fifth Day

The following day was very warm, and some half-dozen of the party wandered into the garden after lunch and took their coffee under a big chestnut tree on the lawn. "And this is the 16th of June," said Lady Considine. "Last year, on this very day, I started for Hombourg. I can't say I feel like starting for Hombourg, or any other place, just at present."

"But why should any one of us want to go to Hombourg?" said Sir John. "Nobody can be afraid of gout with the admirable diet we enjoy here."

"I beg you to speak for yourself, Sir John," said Lady Considine. "I have never yet gone to Hombourg on account of gout."

"Of course not, my dear friend, of course not; there are so many reasons for going to Hombourg. There's the early rising, and the band, and the new people one may meet there, and the change of diet—especially the change of diet. But, you see, we have found our change of diet within an hour of London, so why—as I before remarked—should we want to rush off to Hombourg?"

"I am a firm believer in that change of diet," said Mrs. Wilding, "though in the most respectable circles the true-bred Briton still talks about foreign messes, and affirms that anything else than plain British fare ruins the digestion. I must say my own digestion is none the worse for the holiday I am having from the preparations of my own 'treasure.' I think we all look remarkably well; and we don't quarrel or snap at each other, and it would be hard to find a better proof of wholesome diet than that."

"But I fancied Mrs. Gradinger looked a little out of sorts this morning, and I'm sure she was more than a little out of temper when I asked her how soon we were to taste her dish of toadstools," said Miss Macdonnell.

"I expect she had been making a trial of the British fungi in her bedroom," said Van der Roet; "and then, you see, our conversation isn't quite 'high toned' enough for her taste. We aren't sufficiently awake to the claims of the masses. Can any one explain to me why the people who are so full of mercy for the mass, are so merciless to the unit?"

"That is her system of proselytising," said the Colonel, "and if she is content with outward conversion, it isn't a bad one. I often feel inclined to agree to any proposition she likes to put forward, and I would, if I could stop her talking by my submission."

"You wouldn't do that, Colonel, even in your suavest mood," said Van der Roet; "but I hope somebody will succeed in checking her flow of discourse before long. I'm getting worn to a shadow by the grind of that awful voice."

"I thought your clothes were getting a bit loose," said the Colonel, "but I put that phenomenon down to another reason. In spite of Mrs. Wilding's praise of our present style of cooking, I don't believe our friend Vander finds it substantial enough to sustain his manly bulk, and I'll tell you the grounds of my belief. A few mornings ago, when I was shaving, I saw the butcher bring into the house a splendid sirloin, and as no sirloin has appeared at table, I venture to infer that this joint was a private affair of Vander's, and that he, as well as Mrs. Gradinger, has been going in for bedroom cookery. Here comes the Marchesa; we'll ask her to solve the mystery."

"I can account for the missing sirloin," said the Marchesa. "The Colonel is wrong for once. It went duly into the kitchen, and not to Mr. Van der Roet's bedroom; but I must begin with a slight explanation, or rather apology. Next to trial by jury, and the reverence paid to rank, and the horror of all things which, as poor Corney Grain used to say, 'are not nice,' I reckon the Sunday sirloin, cooked and served, one and  indivisible as the typical fetish of the great English middle class. With this fact before my eyes, I can assure you I did not lightly lay a hand on its integrity. My friends, you have eaten that sirloin without knowing it. You may remember that yesterday after lunch the Colonel was loud in praise of a dish of beef. Well, that beef was a portion of the same, and not the best portion. The Manzo in insalata, which pleased the Colonel's palate, was that thin piece at the lower end, the chief function of which, when the sirloin is cooked whole, seems to lie in keeping the joint steady on the dish while paterfamilias carves it. It is never eaten in the dining-room hot, because every one justly prefers and goes for the under cut; neither does it find favour at lunch next day, for the reason that, as cold beef, the upper cut is unapproachable. I have never heard that the kitchen hankers after it inordinately; indeed, its ultimate destination is one of the unexplained mysteries of housekeeping. I hold that never, under any circumstances, should it be cooked with the sirloin, but always cut off and marinated and braized as we had it yesterday. Thus you get two hot dishes; our particular sirloin has given us three. The parts of this joint vary greatly in flavour, and in texture as well, and by accentuating this variation by treatment in the kitchen, you escape that monotony which is prone to pervade the table so long as the sirloin remains in the house. Mrs. Sinclair is sufficiently experienced as a housekeeper to know that the dish of fillets we had for dinner last night was not made from the under cut of one sirloin. It was by borrowing a little from the upper part that I managed to fill the dish, and I'm sure that any one who may have got one of the uppercut fillets had no cause to grumble. The Filetto di Bue which we had for lunch to-day was the residue of the upper cut, and, admirable as is a slice of cold beef taken from this part of the joint, I think it is an excellent variation to make a hot dish of it sometimes. On the score of economy, I am sure that a sirloin treated in this fashion goes a long way further."

"The Marchesa demolishes one after another of our venerable institutions with so charming a despatch that we can scarcely grieve for them," said Sir John. "I am not philosopher enough to divine what change may come over the British character when every man sits down every day to a perfectly cooked dinner. It is sometimes said that our barbarian forefathers left their northern solitudes because they hankered after the wine and delicate meats of the south, and perhaps the modern Briton may have been led to overrun the world by the hope of finding a greater variety of diet than he gets at home. It may mean, Marchesa, that this movement of yours for the suppression of English plain cooking will mark the close of our national expansion."

"My dear Sir John, you may rest assured that your national expansion, as well as your national cookery, will continue in spite of anything we may accomplish here, and I say good luck to them both. When have I ever denied the merits of English cookery?" said the Marchesa. "Many of its dishes are unsurpassed. These islands produce materials so fine, that no art or elaboration can improve them. They are best when they are cooked quite plainly, and this is the reason why simplicity is the key-note of English cookery. A fine joint of mutton roasted to a turn, a plain fried sole with anchovy butter a broiled chop or steak or kidney, fowls or game cooked English fashion, potatoes baked in their skins and eaten with butter and salt, a rasher of Wiltshire bacon and a new-laid egg, where will you beat these? I will go so far as to say no country can produce a bourgeoises dish which can be compared with steak and kidney pudding. But the point I want to press home is that Italian cookery comes to the aid of those who cannot well afford to buy those prime qualities of meat and fish which allow of this perfectly plain treatment. It is, as I have already said, the cookery of a nation short of cash and unblessed with such excellent meat and fish and vegetables as you lucky islanders enjoy. But it is rich in clever devices of flavouring, and in combinations, and I am sure that by its help English people of moderate means may fare better and spend less than they spend now, if only they will take a little trouble."

Menu—Lunch

  Gnocchi alla Romana.                  Semolina with parmesan.
  Filetto di Bue al pistacchi.          Fillet of beef with pistachios
  Bodini marinati.                      Marinated rissoles.

Menu—Dinner.

  Zuppa Crotopo.                        Croute au pot soup.
  Sogliole alla Veneziana.              Fillets of sole.
  Ateletti alla Sarda.                  Atelets of ox-palates, &c.
  Costolette di Montone alla Nizzarda.  Mutton cutlets.
  Pollo alla Fiorentina.                Fowl with macaroni.
  Crema tartara alla Caramella.         Caramel cream.
  Uova rimescolati al tartufi.          Eggs with truffles.

The Sixth Day

The following morning, at breakfast, a servant announced that Sir John Oglethorpe was taking his breakfast in his room, and that there was no need to keep anything in reserve for him. It was stated, however, that Sir John was in no way indisposed, and that he would join the party at lunch.

He seated himself in his usual place, placid and fresh as ever; but, unharmed as he was physically, it was evident to all the company that he was suffering from some mental discomposure. Miss Macdonnell, with a frank curiosity which might have been trying in any one else, asked him point-blank the reason of his absence from the meal for which, in spite of his partiality for French cookery, he had a true Englishman's devotion.

"I feel I owe the company some apology for my apparent churlishness," he said; "but the fact is, that I have received some very harrowing, but at the same time very interesting, news this morning. I think I told you the other day how the vacancy in my kitchen has led up to a very real tragedy, and that the abhorred Fury was already hovering terribly near the head of poor Narcisse. Well, I have just received from a friend in Paris journals containing a full account of the trial of Narcisse and of his fair accomplice. The worst has come to pass, and Narcisse has been doomed to sneeze into the basket like a mere aristocrat or politician during the Terror I was greatly upset by this news, but I was interested, and in a measure consoled, to find an enclosure amongst the other papers, an envelope addressed to me in the handwriting of the condemned man. This voix d'outre tombe, I rejoice to say, confides to me the secret of that incomparable sauce of his, a secret which I feared might be buried with Narcisse in the prison ditch."

The Marchesa sighed as she listened. The recipe of the sauce was safe indeed, but she knew by experience how wide might be the gulf between the actual work of an artist and the product of another hand guided by his counsels, let the hand be ever so dexterous, and the counsels ever so clear. "Will it be too much," she said, "to ask you to give us the details of this painful tragedy?"

"It will not," Sir John replied reflectively. "The last words of many a so-called genius have been enshrined in literature: probably no one will ever know the parting objurgation of Narcisse. I will endeavour, however, to give you some notion as to what occurred, from the budget I have just read. I fear the tragedy was a squalid one. Madame, the victim, was elderly, unattractive in person, exacting in temper, and the owner of considerable wealth—at least, this is what came out at the trial. It was one of those tangles in which a fatal denouement is inevitable; and, if this had not come through Mademoiselle Sidonie, it would have come through somebody else. The lovers plotted to remove madame by first drugging her, then breaking her skull with the wood chopper, and then pitching her downstairs so as to produce the impression that she had met her death in this fashion. But either the arm of Mademoiselle Sidonie—who was told off to do the hammering—was unskilled in such work, or the opiate was too weak, for the victim began to shriek before she gave up the ghost. Detection seemed imminent, so Narcisse, in whom the quality of discretion was evidently predominant, bolted at once and got out of the country. But the facts were absolutely clear. The victim lived long enough to depose that Mademoiselle Sidonie attacked her with the wood chopper, while Narcisse watched the door. The advocate of Narcisse did his work like a man. He shed the regulation measure of tears; he drew graphic pictures of the innocent youth of Narcisse, of his rise to eminence, and of his filial piety as evidenced by the frequent despatch of money and comestibles to his venerable mother, who was still living near Bourges. Once a year, too, this incomparable artist found time to renew his youth by a sojourn in the simple cottage which saw his birth, and by embracing the giver of his life. Was it possible that a man who treated one woman with such devotion and reverence could take the life of another? He adduced various and picturesque reasons to show that such an event must be impossible, but the jury took the opposite view. Some one had to be guillotined, and the intelligent jury decided that Paris could spare Narcisse better than it could spare Mademoiselle Sidonie. I fear the fact that he had deigned to sell his services to a brutal islander may have helped them to come to this conclusion, but there were other and more weighty reasons. Of the supreme excellence of Narcisse as an artist the jury knew nothing, so they let him go hang—or worse—but of Mademoiselle Sidonie they knew a good deal, and their knowledge, I believe, is shared by certain English visitors to Paris. She is one of the attractions of the Fantasies d'Arcadie, and her latest song, Bonjour Coco, is sung and whistled in every capital of Europe; so the jury, thrusting aside as mere pedantry the evidence of facts, set to work to find some verdict which would not eclipse the gaiety of La Ville Lumiere by cutting short the career of Mademoiselle Sidonie. The art of the chef appealed to only a few, and he dies a mute, but by no means inglorious martyr: the art of the chanteuse appeals to the million, the voice of the many carries the day, and Narcisse must die."

"It is a revolting story," said Mrs. Gradinger, "and one possible only in a corrupted and corrupting society. It is wonderful, as Sir John remarks, how the conquering streams of tendency manifest themselves even in an affair like this. Ours is a democratic age, and the wants and desires of the many, who find delight in this woman's singing, override the whims of the pampered few, the employers of such costly luxuries as men cooks."

"You see you are a mere worm, Sir John," laughed Miss Macdonnell, "and you had better lay out your length to be trampled on."

"Yes, I have long foreseen our fate, we who happen to possess what our poor brother hankers after. Well, perhaps I may take up the worm's role at once and 'turn', that is, burn the recipe of Narcisse."

"O Sir John, Sir John," cried Mrs. Sinclair "any such burning would remind me irresistibly of Mr. Mantalini's attempts at suicide. There would be an accurate copy in your pocket-book, and besides this you would probably have learnt off the recipe by heart."

"Yes, we know our Sir John better than that, don't we?" said the Marchesa; "but, joking apart, Sir John, you might let me have the recipe at once. It would go admirably with one of our lunch dishes for to-morrow."

But on the subject of the sauce, Sir John—like the younger Mr. Smallweed on the subject of gravy—was adamant. The wound caused by the loss of Narcisse was, he declared, yet too recent: the very odour of the sauce would provoke a thousand agonising regrets. And then the hideous injustice of it all: Narcisse the artist, comparatively innocent (for to artists a certain latitude must be allowed), to moulder in quicklime, and this greedy, sordid murderess to go on ogling and posturing with superadded popularity before an idiot crowd unable to distinguish a Remoulade from a Ravigotte! "No, my dear Marchesa," he said, "the secret of Narcisse must be kept a little longer, for, to tell the truth, I have an idea. I remember that ere this fortunes have been made out of sauces, and if this sauce be properly handled and put before the public, it may counteract my falling, or rather disappearing rents. If only I could hit upon a fetching name, and find twenty thousand pounds to spend in advertising, I might be able once more to live on my acres."

"Oh, surely we shall be able to find you a name between us," said Mrs. Wilding; "money, and things of that sort are to be procured in the city, I believe; and I daresay Mr. Van der Roet will design a pretty label for the sauce bottles."

Menu—Lunch.

  Pollo all'olive.                    Fowl with olives.
  Scaloppine di rive.                 Veal cutlets with rice.
  Sedani alla parmigiana.             Stewed celery.

Menu—Dinner.

  Zuppa primaverile.                  Spring soup
  Sote di Salmone al funghi.          Salmon with mushrooms.
  Tenerumi d'Agnello alla veneziana.  Breast of lamb alla Veneziana.
  Testa di Vitello alla sorrentina.   Calf's head alla Sorrentina.
  Fagiano alla perigo.                Pheasant with truffles.
  Torta alla cremonese.               Cremona tart.
  Uova alla fiorentina.               Egg savoury.

The Seventh Day

"It seems invidious to give special praise where everything is so good," said Mrs. Sinclair next day at lunch, "but I must say a word about that clear soup we had at dinner last night. I have never ceased to regret that my regard for manners forbade me ask for a second helping."

"See what it is to have no manners," said Van der Roet. "I plunged boldly for another portion of that admirable preparation of calf's head at dinner. If I hadn't, I should have regretted it for ever after. Now, I'm sure you are just as curious about the construction of these masterpieces as I am, Mrs. Sinclair, so we'll beg the Marchesa to let us into the secret."

"Mrs. Sinclair herself had a hand in the calf's-head dish, 'Testa di Vitello alla sorrentina,' so perhaps I may hand over that part of the question to her. I am very proud that one of my pupils should have won praise from such a distinguished expert as Mr. Van der Roet, and I leave her to expound the mystery of its charm. I think I may without presumption claim the clear soup as a triumph, and it is a discovery of my own. The same calf's head which Mrs. Sinclair has treated with such consummate skill, served also as the foundation for the stock of the clear soup. This stock certainly derived its distinction from the addition of the liquor in which the head was boiled. A good consomme can no doubt be made with stock-meat alone, but the best soup thus made will be inferior to that we had for dinner last night. Without the calf's head you will never get such softness, combined with full roundness on the tongue, and the great merit of calf's head is that it lets you attain this excellence without any sacrifice of transparency."

"I have marvelled often at the clearness of your soups, Marchesa," said the Colonel. "What clearing do you use to make them look like pale sherry?"

"No one has any claim to be called a cook who cannot make soup without artificial clearing," said the Marchesa. "Like the poet, the consomme is born, not made. It must be clear from the beginning, an achievement which needs care and trouble like every other artistic effort, but one nevertheless well within the reach of any student who means to succeed. To clear a soup by the ordinary medium of white of egg or minced beef is to destroy all flavour and individuality. If the stock be kept from boiling until it has been strained, it will develop into a perfectly clear soup under the hands of a careful and intelligent cook. The fleeting delicate aroma which, as every gourmet will admit, gives such grateful aid to the palate, is the breath of garden herbs and of herbs alone, and here I have a charge to bring against contemporary cookery. I mean the neglect of natural in favour of manufactured flavourings. With regard to herbs, this could not always have been the rule, for I never go into an old English garden without finding there a border with all the good old-fashioned pot herbs growing lustily. I do not say that the use of herbs is unknown, for of course the best cookery is impossible without them, but I fear that sage mixed with onion is about the only one which ever tickles the palate of the great English middle-class. And simultaneously with the use of herb flavouring in soup has arisen the practice of adding wine, which to me seems a very questionable one. If wine is put in soup at all, it must be used so sparingly as to render its presence imperceptible. Why then use it at all? In some sauces wine is necessary, but in all cases it is as difficult to regulate as garlic, and requires the utmost vigilance on the part of the cook."

"My last cook, who was very stout and a little middle-aged, would always use flavouring sauces from the grocer's rather than walk up to the garden, where we have a most seductive herb bed," said Mrs. Wilding; "and then, again, the love of the English for pungent-made sauces is another reason for this makeshift practice. 'Oh, a table-spoonful of somebody's sauce will do for the flavouring,' and in goes the sauce, and the flavouring is supposed to be complete. People who eat their chops, and steaks, and fish, and game, after having smothered the natural flavour with the same harsh condiment, may be satisfied with a cuisine of this sort, but to an unvitiated palate the result is nauseous."

"Yet as a Churchwoman, Mrs. Wilding, you ought to speak with respect of English sauces. I think I have heard how a libation of one of them, which was poured over a certain cathedral, has made it look as good as new," said Miss Macdonnell, "and we have lately learned that one of the most distinguished of our party is ambitious to enter the same career."

"I would suggest that Sir John should devote all that money he proposes to make by the aid of his familiar spirit—the ghost of Narcisse—to the building of a temple in honour of the tenth muse, the muse of cookery," said Mrs. Sinclair; "and what do you think, Sir John, of a name I dreamt of last night for your sauce, 'The New Century Sauce'? How will that do?"

"Admirably," said Sir John after a moment's pause; "admirably enough to allow me to offer you a royalty on every bottle sold. 'The New Century Sauce', that's the name for me; and now to set to work to build the factory, and to order plans for the temple of the tenth muse."

Menu—Lunch.

  Maccheroni al pomidoro.        Macaroni with tomatoes,
  Vitello alla pellegrina.       Veal cutlets alla pellegrina.
  Animelle al sapor di targone.  Sweetbread with tarragon sauce.

Menu—Dinner.

  Zuppa alla Canavese.           Soup alla Canavese
  Naselli con piselli.           Whiting with peas.
  Coscia di manzo al forno.      Braized ribs of beef.
  Lingua alla Visconti.          Tongue with grapes.
  Anitra selvatica.              Wild duck.
  Zabajone ghiacciato.           Iced syllabub.
  Crostatini alla capucina.      Savoury of rice, truffles, &c.

The Eighth Day

"We are getting unpleasantly near the end of our time," said the Colonel, "but I am sure not one of us has learnt one tithe of what the Marchesa has to teach."

"My dear Colonel Trestrail," said the Marchesa, "an education in cookery does not mean the teaching of a certain number of recipes. Education, I maintain, is something far higher than the mere imparting of facts; my notion of it is the teaching of people to teach themselves, and this is what I have tried to do in the kitchen. With some of you I am sure I have succeeded, and a book containing the recipe of every dish we have tried will be given to every pupil when we break up."

"I think the most valuable lesson I have learnt is that cookery is a matter for serious study," said Mrs. Sinclair. "The popular English view seems to be that it is one of those things which gets itself done. The food is subjected to the action of heat, a little butter, or pepper, or onion, being added by way of flavouring, and the process is complete. To put it bluntly, it requires at least as much mental application to roast a fowl as to cut a bodice; but it does not strike the average Englishwoman in this way, for she will spend hours in thinking and talking about dressmaking (which is generally as ill done as her cooking), while she will be reluctant to give ten minutes to the consideration as to how a luncheon or supper dish shall be prepared. The English middle classes are most culpably negligent about the food they eat, and as a consequence they get exactly the sort of cooks they deserve to get. I do not blame the cooks; if they can get paid for cooking ill, why should they trouble to learn to cook well?"

"I agree entirely," said Mrs. Wilding. "That saying, 'What I like is good plain roast and boiled, and none of your foreign kickshaws,' is, as every one knows, the stock utterance of John Bull on the stage or in the novel; and, though John Bull is not in the least like his fictitious presentment, this form of words is largely responsible for the waste and want of variety in the English kitchen. The plain roast and boiled  means a joint every day, and this arrangement the good plain cook finds an admirable one for several reasons: it means little trouble, and it means also lots of scraps and bones and waste pieces. The good plain cook brings all the forces of obstruction to bear whenever the mistress suggests made dishes; and, should this suggestion ever be carried out, she takes care that the achievement shall be of a character not likely to invite repetition. Not long ago a friend of mine was questioning a cook as to soups, whereupon the cook answered that she had never been required to make such things where she had lived; all soups were bought in tins or bottles, and had simply to be warmed up. Cakes, too, were outside her repertoire, having always been 'had in' from the confectioner's, while 'entrys' were in her opinion, and in the opinion of her various mistresses, 'un'ealthy' and not worth making."

"My experience is that, if a mistress takes an interest in cooking, she will generally have a fairly efficient cook," said Mrs. Fothergill. "I agree with Mrs. Sinclair that our English cooks are spoilt by neglect; and I think it is hard upon them, as a class, that so many inefficient women should be able to pose as cooks while they are unable to boil a potato properly."

"And the so-called schools of cookery are quite useless in what they teach," said Miss Macdonnell. "I once sent a cook of mine to one to learn how to make a clear soup, and when she came back, she sent up, as an evidence of her progress, a potato pie coloured pink and green, a most poisonous-looking dish—and her clear soups were as bad as ever."

Said the Colonel, "I will beg leave to enter a protest against the imperfections of that repast which is supposed to be the peculiar delight of the ladies, I allude to afternoon tea. I want to know why it is that unless I happen to call just when the tea is brought up—I grant, I know of a few houses which are honourable exceptions—I am fated to drink that most abominable of all decoctions, stewed lukewarm tea. 'Will you have some tea? I'm afraid it isn't quite fresh,' the hostess will remark without a blush. What would she think if her husband at dinner were to say, 'Colonel, take a glass of that champagne. It was opened the day before yesterday, and I daresay the fizz has gone off a little'? Tea is cheap enough, and yet the hostess seldom or never thinks of ordering up a fresh pot. I believe it is because she is afraid of the butler."

"I sympathise with you fully, Colonel," said Lady Considine, "and my withers are unwrung. You do not often honour me with your presence on Tuesdays, but I am sure I may claim to be one of your honourable exceptions."

"Indeed you may," said the Colonel. "Perhaps men ought not to intrude on these  occasions; but I have a preference for taking tea in a pretty drawing-room, with a lot of agreeable women, rather than in a club surrounded by old chaps growling over the latest job at the War Office, and a younger brigade chattering about the latest tape prices, and the weights for the spring handicaps."

"All these little imperfections go to prove that we are not a nation of cooks," said Van der Roet. "We can't be everything. Heine once said that the Romans would never have found time to conquer the world if they had been obliged to learn the Latin grammar; and it is the same with us. We can't expect to found an empire all over the planet, and cook as well  as the French, who—perhaps wisely—never willingly emerge from the four corners of their own land."

"There is energy enough left in us when we set about some purely utilitarian task," said Mrs. Wilding, "but we never throw ourselves into the arts with the enthusiasm of the Latin races. I was reading the other day of a French costumier who rushed to inform a lady, who had ordered a turban, of his success, exclaiming, 'Madame, apres trots nun's d'insomnie les plumes vent placees.' And every one knows the story of Vatel's suicide because the fish failed to arrive. No Englishman would be capable of  flights like these."

"Really, this indictment of English cookery makes me a little nervous," said Lady Considine "I have promised to join in a driving tour through the southern counties. I shudder to think of the dinners I shall have to eat at the commercial hotels and posting-houses on our route."

"English country inns are not what they ought to be, but now and then you come across one which is very good indeed, as good, if not better, than anything you could find in any other country; but I fear I must admit that, charges considered, the balance is against us," said Sir John.

"When you start you ought to secure Sir John's services as courier, Lady Considine," said the Marchesa. "I once had the pleasure of driving for a week through the Apennines in a party under his guidance, and I can assure you we found him quite honest and obliging."

"Ah, Marchesa, I was thinking of that happy time this very morning," said Sir John. "Of Arezzo, where we were kept for three days by rain, which I believe is falling there still. Of Cortona, with that wonderful little restaurant on the edge of the cliff, whence you see Thrasumene lying like a silver mirror in the plain below. Of Perugia, the august, of Gubbio, Citta di Castello, Borgo San Sepolcro, Urbino, and divers others. If you go for a drive in Italy, you still may meet with humours of the road such as travellers of old were wont to enjoy. I well remember on the road between Perugia and Gubbio we began to realise we were indeed traversing mountain paths. On a sudden the driver got down, waved his arms, and howled to some peasants working in a field below. These, on their part, responded with more arm-waving and howling, directed apparently towards a village farther up the hill, whereupon we were assailed with visions of brigands, and amputated ears, and ransom. But at a turn of the road we came upon two magnificent white oxen, which, being harnessed on in front, drew us, and our carriages and horses as well, up five miles of steep incline. These beautiful fellows, it seemed, were what the driver was signalling for, and not for brigands. Again, every inn we stayed at supplied us with some representative touch of local life and habit. Here the whole personnel of the inn, reinforced by a goodly contingent of the townsfolk, would accompany us even into our bedrooms, and display the keenest interest in the unpacking of our luggage. There the cook would come and take personal instructions as to the coming meal, throwing out suggestions the while as to the merits of this or that particular dish, and in one place the ancient chambermaid insisted that one of the ladies, who had got a slight cold, should have the prete put into her bed for a short time to warm it. You need not look shocked, Colonel. The prete in question was merely a wooden frame, in the midst of which hangs a scaldino filled with burning ashes—a most comforting ecclesiastic, I can assure you. All the inns we visited had certain characteristics in common. The entrance is always dirty, and the staircase too, the dining rooms fairly comfortable, the bedrooms always clean and good, and the food much better than you would expect to find in such out-of-the-way places; indeed I cannot think of any inn where it was not good and wholesome, while often it was delicious. In short, Lady Considine, I strongly advise you to take a drive in Italy next spring, and if I am free I shall be delighted to act as courier."

"Sir John has forgotten one or two touches I must fill in," said the Marchesa. "It was often difficult to arrange a stopping-place for lunch, so we always stocked our basket before starting. After the first day's experience we decided that it was vastly more pleasant to take our meal while going uphill at a foot-pace, than in the swing and jolt of a descent, so the route and the pace of the horses had to be regulated in order to give us a good hour's ascent about noon. Fortunately hills are plentiful in this part of Italy, and in the keen air we generally made an end of the vast store of provisions we laid in, and the generous fiascho was always empty a little too soon. Our drive came to an end at Fano, whither we had gone on account of a strange romantic desire of Sir John to look upon an angel which Browning had named in one of his poems. Ah! how vividly I can recall our pursuit of that picture. It was a wet, melancholy day. The people of Fano were careless of the fame of their angel, for no one knew the church which it graced. At last we came upon it by the merest chance, and Sir John led the procession up to the shrine, where we all stood for a time in positions of mock admiration. Sir John tried hard to keep up the imposition, but something, either his innate honesty or the chilling environment of disapproval of Guercino's handiwork, was too much for him. He did his best to admire, but the task was beyond his powers, and he raised no protest when some scoffer affirmed that, though Browning might be a great poet, he was a mighty poor judge of painting, when he gave in his beautiful poem immortality to this tawdry theatrical canvas. 'I think,' said Sir John, 'we had better go back to the hotel and order lunch. It would have been wiser to have ordered it before we left.' We were all so much touched by his penitence that no one had the heart to remind him how a proposition as to lunch had been made by our leading Philistine as soon as we arrived, a proposition waved aside by Sir John as inadmissible until the 'Guardian  Angel' should have been seen and admired."

"I plead guilty," said Sir John. "I think this experience gave a death-blow to my career as an appreciator. Anyhow, I quite forget what the angel was like, and for reminiscences of Fano have to fall back upon the excellent colazione we ate in the externally unattractive, but internally admirable, Albergo del Moro."

Menu—Lunch.

  Astachi all'Italiana.            Lobster all'Italiana
  Filetto di bue alla Napolitana.  Fillet of beef with Neapolitan sauce.
  Risotto alla spagnuola.          Savoury rice.

Menu—Dinner.

  Zuppa alla Romana.               Soup with quenelles.
  Salmone alla Genovese.           Salmon alla Genovese.
  Costolette in agro-dolce.        Mutton cutlets with Roman sauce.
  Flano di spinacci.               Spinach in a mould.
  Cappone con rive.                Capon with rice.
  Croccante di mandorle.           Almond sweet.
  Ostriche alla Napolitana.        Oyster savoury.

The Ninth Day

"Since I have been associated with the production of a dinner, I have had my eyes opened as to the complicated nature of the task, and the numerous strings which have to be pulled in order to ensure success," said the Colonel; "but, seeing that a dinner-party with well-chosen sympathetic guests and distinguished dishes represents one of the consummate triumphs of civilisation, there is no reason to wonder. To achieve a triumph of any sort demands an effort."

"Effort," said Miss Macdonnell. "Yes, effort is the word I associate with so many middle-class English dinners. It is an effort to the hosts, who regard the whole business as a mere paying off of debts; and an effort to the guests, who, as they go to dress, recall grisly memories of former similar experiences. It often astonishes me that dinner-giving of this character should still flourish."

"The explanation is easy," said Van der Roet; "it flourishes because it gives a mark of distinction. It is a delicious moment for Mrs. Johnson when she is able to say to Mrs. Thompson, 'My dear, I am quite worn-out; we dined out every day last week, and have four more dinners in the next five days.' These good people show their British grit by the persistency with which they go on with their penitential hospitality, and their lack of ideas in never attempting to modify it so as to make it a pleasure instead of a disagreeable duty."

"It won't do to generalise too widely, Van der Roet," said Sir John. "Some of these good people surely enjoy their party-giving; and, from my own experience of one or two houses of this sort, I can assure you the food is quite respectable. The great imperfection seems to lie in the utter want of consideration in the choice of guests. A certain number of people and a certain quantity of food shot into a room, that is their notion of a dinner-party."

"Of course we understand that the success of a dinner depends much more on the character of the guests than on the character of the food," said Mrs. Sinclair; "and most of us, I take it, are able to fill our tables with pleasant friends; but what of the dull people who know none but dull people? What gain will they get by taking counsel how they shall fill their tables?"

"More, perhaps, than you think, dear Mrs. Sinclair," said Sir John. "Dull people often enjoy themselves immensely when they meet dull people only. The frost comes when the host unwisely mixes in one or two guests of another sort—people who give themselves airs of finding more pleasure in reading Stevenson than the sixpenny magazines, and who don't know where Hurlingham is. Then the sheep begin to segregate themselves from the goats, and the feast is manque."

"Considering what a trouble and anxiety a dinner-party must be to the hostess, even under the most favouring conditions, I am always at a loss to discover why so many women take so much pains, and spend a considerable sum of money as well, over details which are unessential, or even noxious," said Mrs. Wilding. "A few flowers on the table are all very well—one bowl in the centre is enough—but in many houses the cost of the flowers equals, if it does not outrun, the cost of all the rest of the entertainment. A few roses or chrysanthemums are perfect as accessories,  but to load a table with flowers of heavy or pungent scent is an outrage. Lilies of the valley are lovely in proper surroundings, but on a dinner-table they are anathema. And then the mass of paper monstrosities which crowd every corner. Swans, nautilus shells, and even wild boars are used to hold up the menu. Once my menu was printed on a satin flag, and during the war the universal khaki invaded the dinner table. Ices are served in frilled baskets of paper, which have a tendency to dissolve and amalgamate with the sweet. The only paper on the table should be the menu, writ plain on a handsome card."

"No one can complain of papery ices here," said the Marchesa. "Ices may be innocuous, but I don't favour them, and no one seems to have felt the want of them; at least, to adopt the phrase of the London shopkeeper, 'I have had no complaints.' And even the ice, the very emblem of purity, has not escaped the touch of the dinner-table decorator. Only a few days ago I helped myself with my fingers to what looked like a lovely peach, and let it flop down into the lap of a bishop who was sitting next to me. This was the hostess's pretty taste in ices."

"They are generally made in the shape of camelias this season," said Van der Roet. "I knew a man who took one and stuck it in his buttonhole."

"I must say I enjoy an ice at dinner," said Lady Considine. "I know the doctors abuse them, but I notice they always eat them when they get the chance."

"Ah, that is merely human inconsistency," said Sir John. "I am inclined to agree with the Marchesa that ice at dinner is an incongruity, and may well be dispensed with. I think I am correct, Marchesa, in assuming that Italy, which has showered so many boons upon us, gave us also the taste for ices."

"I fear I must agree," said the Marchesa. "I now feel what a blessing it would have been for you English if you had learnt from us instead the art of cooking the admirable vegetables your gardens produce. How is it  that English cookery has never found any better treatment for vegetables than to boil them quite plain? French beans so treated are tender, and of a pleasant texture on the palate, but I have never been able to find any taste in them. They are tasteless largely because the cook persists in shredding them into minute bits, and I maintain that they ought to be cooked whole—certainly when they are young—and sautez, a perfectly plain and easy process, which is hard to beat. Plain boiled cauliflower is doubtless good, but cooked alla crema it is far better; indeed, it is one of the best vegetable dishes I know. But perhaps the greatest discovery in cookery we Italians ever made was the combination of vegetables and cheese. There are a dozen excellent methods of cooking cauliflower with cheese, and one of these has come to you through France, choux-fleurs au gratin, and has become popular. Jerusalem artichokes treated in the same fashion are excellent; and the cucumber, nearly always eaten raw in England, holds a first place as a vegetable for cooking. I seem to remember that every one was loud in its praises when we tasted it as an adjunct to Manzo alla Certosina. Why is it that celery is for the most part only eaten raw with cheese? We have numberless methods of cooking it in Italy, and beetroot and lettuce as well. There is no spinach so good as English, and nowhere is it so badly cooked; it is always coarse and gritty because so little trouble is taken with it, and I can assure you that the smooth, delicate dish which we call Flano di spinacci is not produced merely by boiling and chopping it, and turning it out into a dish."

Menu—Lunch

  Minestrone alla Milanese.            Vegetable broth.
  Coniglio alla Provenzale.            Rabbit alla Provenzale.
  Insalata di pomidoro.                Tomato salad.

Menu—Dinner.

  Zuppa alla Maria Pia.                Soup alla Maria Pia.
  Anguilla con ortaggi alla Milanese.  Eels with vegetables.
  Manzo con sugo di barbabietoli.      Fillet of beef with beetroot sauce.
  Animelle alla parmegiana.            Sweetbread with parmesan.
  Perniciotti alla Gastalda.           Partridges alla Gastalda.
  Uova ripiani.                        Stuffed eggs.

The Tenth Day

The sun rose on the tenth and last day at the "Laurestinas" as he was wont to rise on less eventful mornings. At breakfast the Marchesa proposed that the lunch that day should be a little more ornate than usual, and the dinner somewhat simpler. She requisitioned the services of six of the company to prepare the lunch, and at the same time announced that they would all have a holiday in the afternoon except Mrs. Sinclair, whom she warned to be ready to spend the afternoon in the kitchen helping prepare the last dinner.

Four dishes, all admirable, appeared at lunch, and several of the party expressed regret that the heat of the weather forbade them from tasting every one; but Sir John was not of these. He ate steadily through the menu, and when he finally laid down his knife and fork he heaved a sigh, whether of satisfaction or regret it were hard to say.

"It is a commonplace of the deepest dye to remark that ingratitude is inherent in mankind," he began; "I am compelled to utter it, however, by the sudden longing I feel for a plate from the hand of the late lamented Narcisse after I have eaten one of the best luncheons ever put on a table."

"Experience of one school of excellence has caused a hankering after the triumphs of another," said Miss Macdonnell "There is one glory of the Marchesa, there is, or was, another of Narcisse, and the taste of the Marchesa's handiwork has stimulated the desire of comparision. Never mind, Sir John, perhaps in another world Narcisse may cook you—"

"Oh stop, stop, for goodness' sake," cried Sir John, "I doubt whether even he could make me into a dainty dish to set before the King of Tartarus, though the stove would no doubt be fitted with the latest improvements and the fuel abundant."

"Really, Sir John, I'm not sure I ought not to rise and protest," said Mrs. Wilding, "and I think I would if it weren't our last day."

"Make a note of Sir John's wickedness, and pass it on to the Canon for use in a sermon," said Van der Roet.

"I can only allow you half-an-hour, Laura," said the Marchesa to Mrs. Sinclair, "then you must come and work with me for the delectation of these idle people, who are going to spend the afternoon talking scandal under the chestnuts."

"I am quite ready to join you if I can be of any help," said Mrs. Gradinger. "When knowledge is to be acquired, I am always loath to stand aside, not for my own sake so much as for the sake of others less fortunate, to whom I might possibly impart it hereafter."

"You are very good," said the Marchesa, "but I think I must adhere to my original scheme of having Mrs. Sinclair by herself. I see coffee is now being taken into the garden, so we will adjourn, if you please."

After the two workers had departed for the kitchen, an unwonted silence fell on the party under the chestnuts. Probably every one was pondering over the imminent dissolution of the company, and wondering whether to regret or rejoice. The peace had been kept marvellously well, considering the composition of the company. Mrs. Fothergill at times had made a show of posing as the beneficent patron, and Mrs. Gradinger had essayed to teach what nobody wanted to learn; but firm and judicious snubbing had kept these persons in their proper places. Nearly every one was sorry that the end had come. It had been real repose to Mrs. Wilding to pass ten days in an atmosphere entirely free from all perfume of the cathedral close. Lady Considine had been spending freely of late, and ten days' cessation of tradesmen's calls, and servants on board wages, had come as a welcome relief. Sir John had gained a respite from the task he dreaded, the task of going in quest of a successor to Narcisse. Now as he sat consuming his cigarette in the leisurely fashion so characteristic of his enjoyment—and those who knew him best were wont to say that Sir John practiced few arts so studiously as that of enjoyment—he could not banish the figure of Narcisse from his reverie. A horrible thought assailed him that this obsession might spring from the fact that on this very morning Narcisse might have taken his last brief walk out of the door of La Roquette, and that his disembodied spirit might be hovering around. Admirable as the cookery of the Marchesa had been, and fully as he had appreciated it, he felt he would give a good  deal to be assured that on this the last evening of the New Decameron he might sit down to a dinner prepared by the hand of his departed chef.

That evening the guests gathered round the table with more empressement than usual. The Marchesa seemed a little flurried, and Mrs. Sinclair, in a way, shared her excitement. The menu, for the first time, was written in French, a fact which did not escape Sir John's eye. He made no remark as to the soup; it was the best of its kind, and its French name made it no better than the other triumphs in the same field which the Marchesa had achieved. But when Sir John tasted the first mouthful of the fish he paused, and after a reflective and regretful look at his plate, he cast his eye round the table. All the others, however, were too busily intent in consuming the Turbot la Vatel to heed his interrogative glance, so he followed suit, and after he had finished his portion, asked, sotto voce, for another bit.

In the interval before the service of the next dish Sir John made several vain attempts to catch the Marchesa's eye, and more than once tried to get in a word; but she kept up a forced and rather nervous conversation with Lady Considine and Van der Roet, and refused to listen. As Sir John helped himself to the next dish, Venaison sauce Grand Veneur, the feeling of astonishment which had seized him when he first tasted the fish deepened into something like Consternation. Had his palate indeed deceived him, or had the Marchesa, by some subtle effort of experimental genius, divined the secret of Narcisse—the secret of that incomparable sauce, the recipe of which was safely bestowed in his pocket-book? Occasionally he had taken a brief nap under the verandah after lunch: was it possible that in his sleep he might have murmured, in her hearing, words which gave the key of the mystery, and the description of those ingredients which often haunted his dreams? One thing was certain, that the savour which rose from the venison before him was the same which haunted his memory as the parting effort of the ill-starred Narcisse.

Sir John was the least superstitious of mortals, still here he was face to face with one of these conjunctions of affairs which the credulous accept as manifestations of some hidden power, and sceptics as coincidences and nothing more. All the afternoon he had been thinking of Narcisse, and yearning beyond measure for something suggestive of his art; and here, on his plate before him, was food which might have been touched by the vanished hand. The same subtle influence pervaded the Chartreuse a la cardinal, the roast capon and salad, and the sweet. At last, when the dinner was nearly over, and when the Marchesa had apparently said all she had to say to Van der Roet, he lifted up his voice and said, "Marchesa, who gave you the recipe for the sauce with which the venison was served this evening?"

The Marchesa glanced at Mrs. Sinclair, and then struck a hand-bell on the table. The door opened, and a little man, habited in a cook's dress of spotless white, entered and came forward. "M. Narcisse," said the Marchesa, "Sir John wants to know what sauce was used in dressing the venison; perhaps you can tell him."

Here the Marchesa rose and left the room, and all the rest followed her, feeling it was unmeet that such a reunion should be witnessed by other eyes, however friendly they might be.

---

"Now, you must tell us all about it," said Lady Considine, as soon as they got into the drawing-room, "and how you ever managed to get him out of this scrape."

"Oh, there isn't much to tell," said the Marchesa. "Narcisse was condemned, indeed, but no one ever believed he would be executed. One of my oldest friends is married to an official high up in the Ministry of Justice, and I heard from her last week that Narcisse would certainly be reprieved; but I never expected a free pardon. Indeed, he got this entirely because it was discovered that Mademoiselle Sidonie, his accomplice, was really a Miss Adah Levine, who had graduated at a music-hall in East London, and that she had announced her intention of retiring to the land of her birth, and ascending to the apex of her profession on the strength of her Parisian reputation. Then it was that the reaction in favour of Narcisse set in; the boulevards could not stand this. The journals dealt with this new outrage in their best Fashoda style; the cafes rang with it: another insult cast upon unhappy France, whose destiny was, it seemed, to weep tears of blood to the end of time. There were rumours of an interpellation in the Chamber, the position of the Minister of the Interior was spoken of as precarious, indeed the Eclaireur reported one evening that he had resigned. Pockets were picked under the eyes of sergents de ville, who were absorbed in proclaiming to each other their conviction of the innocence of Narcisse, and the guilt of cette coquine Anglaise. Cabmen en course ran down pedestrians by the dozen, as they discussed l'affaire Narcisse to an accompaniment of whip-cracking. In front of the Cafe des Automobiles a belated organ-grinder began to grind the air of Mademoiselle Sidonie's great song Bonjour Coco, whereupon the whole company rose with howls and cries of, 'A bas les Anglais, a bas les Juifs. 'Conspuez Coco.' In less than five minutes the organ was disintegrated, and the luckless minstrel flying with torn trousers down a side street. For the next few days la haute gomme promenaded with fragments of the piano organ suspended from watch chains as trophies of victory. But this was not all. Paris broke out into poetry over l'affaire Narcisse, and here is a journal sent to me by my friend which contains a poem in forty-nine stanzas by Aristophane le Beletier, the cher maitre of the 'Moribonds,' the very newest school of poetry in Paris. I won't inflict the whole of it on you, but two stanzas I must read—

"'Puisse-je te rappeler loin des brouillards maudits.
    Vers la France, sainte mere et nourrice!
  Reviens a Lutece, de l'art vrai paradis,
    Je t'evoque, O Monsieur Narcisse!

  Quitte les saignants bifteks, de tes mains sublimes
    Gueris le sein meurtri de ta mere!
  Detourne ton glaive trenchant de tes freles victimes
    Vers l'Albion et sa triste Megere.'"

"Dear me, it sounds a little like some other Parisian odes I have read recently," said Lady Considine. "The triste Megere, I take it, is poor old Britannia, but what does he mean by his freles victimes?"

"No doubt they are the pigeons and the rabbits, and the chickens and the capons which Narcisse is supposed to have slaughtered in hecatombs, in order to gorge the brutal appetite of his English employer," said Miss Macdonnell. "After disregarding such an appeal as this M. Narcisse had better keep clear of Paris for the future, for if he should go back and be recognised I fancy it would be a case of 'conspuvez Narcisse."'

"The French seem to have lost all sense of exactness," said Mrs. Gradinger, "for the lines you have just read would not pass muster as classic. In the penultimate line there are two syllables in excess of the true  Alexandrine metre, and the last line seems too long by one. Neither Racine nor Voltaire would have taken such liberties with prosody. I remember a speech in Phaedre of more than a hundred lines which is an admirable example of what I mean. I dare say some of you know it. It begins:—

"Perfide! oses-tu bien te montrer devant moi? Monstre,"

but before the reciter could get fairly under way the door mercifully opened, and Sir John entered. He advanced towards the Marchesa, and shook her warmly by the hand, but said nothing; his heart was evidently yet too full to allow him to testify his relief in words. He was followed closely by the Colonel, who, taking his stand on the hearth-rug, treated the company to a few remarks, couched in a strain of unwonted eulogy. In the whole course of his life he had never passed a more pleasant ten days, though, to be sure, he had been a little mistrustful at first. As to the outcome of the experiment, if they all made even moderate use of the counsels they had received from the Marchesa, the future of cookery in England was now safe. He was not going to propose a formal vote of thanks, because anything he could say would be entirely insufficient to express the gratitude he felt, and because he deemed that each individual could best thank the Marchesa on his or her behalf.

There was a momentary silence when the Colonel ceased, and then a clearing of the throat and a preliminary movement of the arms gave warning that Mrs. Gradinger was going to speak. The unspoken passage from Racine evidently sat heavily on her chest. Abstracted and overwrought as he was, these symptoms aroused in Sir John a consciousness of impending danger, and he rushed, incontinent, into the breach, before the lady's opening sentence was ready.

"As Colonel Trestrail has just remarked, we, all of us, are in debt to the Marchesa in no small degree; but, in my case, the debt is tenfold. I am sure you all understand why. As a slight acknowledgment of the sympathy I have received from every one here, during my late trial, I beg to ask you all to dine with me this day week, when I will try to set before you a repast a la Francaise, which I hope may equal, I cannot hope that it will excel, the dinners all'Italiana we have tasted in this happy retreat. Narcisse and I have already settled the menu."

"I am delighted to accept," said the Marchesa. "I have no engagement, and if I had I would throw my best friend over."

"And this day fortnight you must all dine with me," said Mrs. Sinclair. "I will spend the intervening days in teaching my new cook how to reproduce the Marchesa's dishes. Then, perhaps, we may be in a better position to decide on the success of the Marchesa's experiment."

---

The next morning witnessed the dispersal of the party. Sir John and Narcisse left by an early train, and for the next few days the reforming hand of the last-named was active in the kitchen. He arrived before the departure of the temporary aide, and had not been half-an-hour in the house before there came an outbreak which might easily have ended in the second appearance of Narcisse at the bar of justice, as homicide, this time to be dealt with by a prosaic British jury, which would probably have doomed him to the halter. Sir John listened over the balusters to the shrieks and howls of his recovered treasure, and wisely decided to lunch at his club. But the club lunch, admirable as it was, seemed flat and unappetising after the dainty yet simple dishes he had recently tasted; and the following day he set forth to search for one of those Italian restaurants, of which he had heard vague reports. Certainly the repast would not be the same as at the "Laurestinas," but it might serve for once. Alas! Sir John did not find the right place, for there are "right places" amongst the Italian restaurants of London. He beat a hasty retreat from the first he entered, when the officious proprietor assured him that he would serve up a dejeuner in the best French style. At the second he chose a dish with an Italian name, but the name was the only Italian thing about it. The experiment had failed. It seemed as if Italian restaurateurs were sworn not to cook Italian dishes, and the next day he went to do as best he could at the club.

But before he reached the club door he recalled how, many years ago, he and other young bloods used to go for chops to Morton's, a queer little house at the back of St. James' Street, and towards Morton's he now turned his steps. As he entered it, it seemed as if it was only yesterday that he was there. He beheld the waiter, with mouth all awry, through calling down the tube. The same old mahogany partitions to the boxes, and the same horse-hair benches. Sir John seated himself in a box, where there was one other luncher in the corner, deeply absorbed over a paper. This luncher raised his head and Sir John recognised Van der Roet.

"My dear Vander, whatever brought you here, where nothing is to be had but chops? I didn't know you could eat a chop."

"I didn't know it myself till to-day," said Van der Roet, with a hungry glance at the waiter, who rushed by with a plate of smoking chops in each hand. "The fact is, I've had a sort of hankering after an Italian lunch, and I went out to find one, but I didn't exactly hit on the right shop, so I came here, where I've been told you can get a chop properly cooked, if you don't mind waiting."

"Ah! I see," said Sir John, laughing. "We've both been on the same quest, and have been equally unlucky. Well, we shall satisfy our hunger here at any rate, and not unpleasantly either."

"I went to one place," said Van der Roet "and before ordering I asked the waiter if there was any garlic in the dish I had ordered. 'Garlic, aglio, no, sir, never.' Whereupon I thought I would go somewhere else. Next I entered the establishment of Baldassare Romanelli. How could a man with such a name serve anything else than the purest Italian cookery, I reasoned, so I ordered, unquestioning, a piatio with an ideal Italian name, Manzo alla Terracina. Alas! the beef used in the composition thereof must have come in a refrigerating chamber from pastures more remote than those of Terracina, and the sauce served with it was simply fried onions. In short, my dish was beefsteak and onions, and very bad at that. So in despair I fell back upon the trusty British chop."

As Van der Roet ceased speaking another guest entered the room, and he and  Sir John listened attentively while the new-comer gave his order. There was no mistaking the Colonel's strident voice. "Now, look here! I want a chop underdone, underdone, you understand, with a potato, and a small glass of Scotch whisky, and I'll sit here."

"The Colonel, by Jove," said Sir John; "I expect he's been restaurant-hunting too."

"Hallo!" said the Colonel, as he recognised the other two, "I never thought I should meet you here: fact is, I've been reading about agricultural depression' and how it is the duty of everybody to eat chops so as to encourage the mutton trade, and that sort of thing."

"Oh, Colonel, Colonel," said Van der Roet. "You know you've been hungering after the cookery of Italy, and trying to find a genuine Italian lunch, and have failed, just as Sir John and I failed, and have come here in despair. But never mind, just wait for a year or so, until the 'Cook's Decameron' has had a fair run for its money, and then you'll find you'll fare as well at the ordinary Italian restaurant as you did at the 'Laurestinas,' and that's saying a good deal."