"Yissor. Very good, Mr. Maitland."




II


POST-PRANDIAL

Bannerman pushed back his chair a few inches, shifting position
the better to benefit of a faint air that fanned in through the
open window. Maitland, twisting the sticky stem of a liqueur glass
between thumb and forefinger, sat in patient waiting for the
lawyer to speak.

But Bannerman was in no hurry; his mood was rather one
contemplative and genial. He was a round and cherubic little man,
with the face of a guileless child, the acumen of a successful
counsel for soulless corporations (that is to say, of a high
order), no particular sense of humor, and a great appreciation of
good eating. And Maitland was famous in his day as one thoroughly
conversant with the art of ordering a dinner.

That which they had just discussed had been uncommon in all
respects; Maitland's scheme of courses and his specification as to
details had roused the admiration of the Primordial's chef and put
him on his mettle. He had outdone himself in his efforts to do
justice to Mr. Maitland's genius; and the Primordial in its deadly