himself. Montague had about made up his mind that this was the end,
and begun to fill up on bread-and-butter, when there appeared cold
asparagus, served in individual silver holders resembling andirons.
Then--appetite now being sufficiently whetted--there came quail, in
piping hot little casseroles--; and then half a grape-fruit set in a
block of ice and filled with wine; and then little squab ducklings,
bursting fat, and an artichoke; and then a cafe parfait; and
then--as if to crown the audacity--huge thick slices of roast beef!
Montague had given up long ago--he could keep no track of the deluge
of food which poured forth. And between all the courses there were
wines of precious brands, tumbled helter-skelter,--sherry and port,
champagne and claret and liqueur. Montague watched poor "Baby" de
Mille out of the corner of his eye, and pitied her; for it was
evident that she could not resist the impulse to eat whatever was
put before her, and she was visibly suffering. He wondered whether
he might not manage to divert her by conversation, but he lacked the
courage to make the attempt.

The meal was over at four o'clock. By that time most of the other
parties were far on their way to New York, and the inn was deserted.
They possessed themselves of their belongings, and one by one their
cars whirled away toward "Black Forest."

Montague had been told that it was a "shooting-lodge." He had a
vision of some kind of a rustic shack, and wondered dimly how so
many people would be stowed away. When they turned off the main
road, and his brother remarked, "Here we are," he was surprised to
see a rather large building of granite, with an archway spanning the
road. He was still more surprised when they whizzed through and went
on.