consequently abandon the rule of the savants of the last generation and
proceed from the light to the less light and then to the rich."

"I agree," said Le Brux.

Leighton nodded to the attendant. Soup was served.

"_Crême d'asperges à la reine_," murmured Le Brux. "Friend, is it not a
source of regret that with the exception of the swallows'-nest
extravaganza and your American essence of turtle, no soup has yet been
invented the price of which is not within the reach of the common herd?
I predict that even this dream of a master will become a commonplace
within a generation."

"I am sorry," said Leighton, "that the boy can't understand you. Your
remark caps an argument I had with him the other day on the evanescent
spirit in art."

The fish arrived.

"The only fish," remarked Leighton, "that can properly be served without
a sauce."

"And why?" said Le Brux, helping himself to the young trout fried in
olive oil and simply garnished with lemon. "I will tell thee. Because
God himself hath half prepared the dish, giving to this dainty creature
a fragrance which assails the senses of man and adds to eating a vision
of purling brooks and overhanging boughs." Suddenly, with his fork
half-way to his mouth, he paused, and glared at Lewis, who was on the
point of helping himself. "_Sacrilège_!"