"Yes, we know our Sir John better than that, don't we?" said the
Marchesa; "but, joking apart, Sir John, you might let me have the
recipe at once. It would go admirably with one of our lunch dishes
for to-morrow."

But on the subject of the sauce, Sir John--like the younger Mr.
Smallweed on the subject of gravy--was adamant. The wound caused
by the loss of Narcisse was, he declared, yet too recent: the very
odour of the sauce would provoke a thousand agonising regrets. And
then the hideous injustice of it all: Narcisse the artist,
comparatively innocent (for to artists a certain latitude must be
allowed), to moulder in quicklime, and this greedy, sordid
murderess to go on ogling and posturing with superadded popularity
before an idiot crowd unable to distinguish a Remoulade from a
Ravigotte! "No, my dear Marchesa," he said, "the secret of Narcisse
must be kept a little longer, for, to tell the truth, I have an
idea. I remember that ere this fortunes have been made out of
sauces, and if this sauce be properly handled and put before the
public, it may counteract my falling, or rather disappearing rents.
If only I could hit upon a fetching name, and find twenty thousand
pounds to spend in advertising, I might be able once more to live
on my acres."

"Oh, surely we shall be able to find you a name between us," said
Mrs. Wilding; "money, and things of that sort are to be procured in
the city, I believe; and I daresay Mr. Van der Roet will design a
pretty label for the sauce bottles."

Menu -- Lunch.