it into a ball and hurled the same to the farthest corner of the
room. "How is it," she ejaculated, "that these English, who
dominate the world abroad, cannot get their food properly cooked at
home? I suppose it is because they, in their lofty way, look upon
cookery as a non-essential, and consequently fall victims to gout
and dyspepsia, or into the clutches of some international
brigandaccio, who declares he is a cordon bleu. One hears now and
again pleasant remarks about the worn-out Latin races, but I know
of one Latin race which can do better than this in cookery." And
having thus delivered herself, the Marchesa lay back on the pillows
and reviewed the situation.

She was sorry in a way to miss the Colonel's dinner. The dishes
which the Bengali cook turned out were excellent, but the host
himself was a trifle dictatorial and too fond of the sound of his
own voice, while certain of the inevitable guests were still worse.
Mrs. Gradinger's letter came as a relief; indeed the Marchesa had
been wondering why she had ever consented to go and pretend to
enjoy herself by eating an ill-cooked dinner in company with social
reformers and educational prigs. She really went because she liked
Mr. Gradinger, who was as unlike his wife as possible, a stout
youth of forty, with a breezy manner and a decided fondness for
sport. Lady Considine's dinners were indifferent, and the guests
were apt to be a bit too smart and too redolent of last season's
Monte Carlo odour. The Sinclairs gave good dinners to perfectly
selected guests, and by reason of this virtue, one not too common,
the host and hostess might be pardoned for being a little too well
satisfied with themselves and with their last new bibelot. The
Fothergill dinners were like all other dinners given by the
Fothergills of society. They were costly, utterly undistinguished,