her cook. As for the Lady Monmouth, she bought not a single copy, which
neglect on coming to the Digbys aroused a coolness.

To this day it is likely that a last auspicated volume still sits on its
shelf with the spice jars in some English country kitchen and that a worn
and toothless cook still thumbs its leaves. If the guests about the table
be of an antique mind, still will they pledge one another with its honeyed
drinks, still will they pipe and whistle of its virtues, still will they--

"EAT"--A flaring sign hangs above the sidewalk. By this time, in our
noonday search for food, we have come into the thick of the restaurants. In
the jungle of the city, here is the feeding place. Here come the growling
bipeds for such bones and messes as are thrown them.

The waiter thrusts a card beneath my nose. "Nice leg of lamb, sir?" I waved
him off. "Hold a bit!" I cried. "You'll fetch me a capon in white broth as
my Lady Monmouth broileth hers. Put plentiful sack in it and boil it until
it simpreth!" The waiter scratched his head. "The chicken pie is good," he
said. "It's our Wednesday dish." "Varlet!" I cried--then softened. "Let it
be the chicken pie! But if the cook knoweth the manner that Lord Carlile
does mix and pepper it, let that manner be followed to the smallest
fraction of a pinch!"





On Buying Old Books