end of a fresh cigar. "What about it? Got a match?"

"Get the gentleman a match, Britton," I said, thereby giving my valet
an opportunity to do his exploding in the pantry. "I can only affirm,
sir, that it is common history that Pontius Pilate spent a portion of
his exile here in the sixth century. It is reasonable to assume that
he sat in this seat, being an old man unused to difficult stairways.
He--"

"Buy it, Orson," said his wife, with authority. "We'll take a chance
on it. If it isn't the right thing, we can sell it to the second-hand
dealers. What's the price?"

"A thousand dollars to you, madam," said I.

They were at once suspicious. While they were busily engaged in looking
the seat over as the porters shifted it about at all angles, I stepped
over and ordered my workmen to resume their operations. I was beginning
to get sour and angry again, having missed my coffee. From the culinary
regions there ascended a most horrific odour of fried onions. If there
is one thing I really resent it is a fried onion. I do not know why
I should have felt the way I did about it on this occasion, but I am
mean enough now to confess that I hailed the triumphal entry of that
pernicious odour with a meanness of spirit that leaves nothing to be
explained.

"Good gracious!" gasped the aristocratic Mrs. Riley-Werkheimer, holding
her nose. "Do you smell _that_"?

"Onions! My Gawd!" sniffed Maude. "How I hate 'em!"