"Me!" he cried--"me, a wet nurse!" He yanked open another button of his
smock. "Behold me! Have I the attributes?"

Leighton turned his back on him.

"Now you are ranting," he said. He picked up an old newspaper from the
floor and started to wrap up the cast he had bought. "Now listen,
_Maître_. Go and dress yourself for a change. The boy and I will spend a
few hours looking for a fiacre that will stand the weight. Then we'll
come back, and I'll take you out for a drive to a place where you can
remind yourself what a tree looks like. I'll also give you a dinner that
you couldn't order in an hour with Carême holding your hand."

"Ah, _mon enfant_," sighed Le Brux, folding his hands across his
stomach, "thou hast struck me below the belt. Thou knowest that my
memory is not so short but what I will dine with thee."

When at seven o'clock the three sat down at a table which, like
everything else that came in contact with Le Brux, seemed a size too
small, Leighton said to his guest:

"_Maître_, it has been my endeavor to provide to-night a single essence
from each of the five great epochs of modern cookery."

"Yes, my child?" said Le Brux, gravely, but with an expectant gleam in
his eye.

"In no branch of science," continued Leighton, "have progress and
innovation been so constantly associated as in gastronomy, and we shall