their regular daily existence. Even then he might be displeased by some
slight slip of the boy's, and a sharp rebuke might follow, but it seemed
forgotten as soon as uttered, and of other consequences there were none
to be feared. Therefore, Keith wished that there might be a party every
day, and while there was one going on he sometimes caught himself
wondering whether, after all, he did not like his father as much as his
mother, or more.

From his own experiences with food as well as from his parents' attitude
toward it, both on special and on ordinary occasions, Keith distilled a
sort of philosophy that it took him several decades to outlive. To him
eating became a good thing in itself, rather than a means to an end. His
parents were neither gluttons nor gourmets, but they liked good food,
and, what was of still greater importance, good eating represented the
principal source of enjoyment open to them. The same seemed true of
their friends, and when company arrived no topic was more in favour than
a comparison of past culinary enjoyments. Keith's father, for instance,
never grew tired of telling about the time when he was still the chief
clerk in a fashionable grocery and the owner gave him permission to
dispose freely of a keg of Holland oysters that threatened to "go bad"
before they could be sold. Four or five friends were drummed together.
The feast took place at night in the store itself. Bread, butter, salt,
pepper, liquor, beer and cards were the only things added to
the oysters.

"And when morning came, and I had to open the store, there was nothing
left but a keg full of empty shells," the father used to shout, laughing
at the same time so that it was hard to catch what he said. Then he
would smack his lips and add with earnest conviction: "I have never
tasted anything better unless it be the Russian caviar we used to import