silence fell on the party under the chestnuts. Probably every one
was pondering over the imminent dissolution of the company, and
wondering whether to regret or rejoice. The peace had been kept
marvellously well, considering the composition of the company.
Mrs. Fothergill at times had made a show of posing as the
beneficent patron, and Mrs. Gradinger had essayed to teach what
nobody wanted to learn; but firm and judicious snubbing had kept
these persons in their proper places. Nearly every one was sorry
that the end had come. It had been real repose to Mrs. Wilding to
pass ten days in an atmosphere entirely free from all perfume of
the cathedral close. Lady Considine had been spending freely of
late, and ten days' cessation of tradesmen's calls, and servants on
board wages, had come as a welcome relief. Sir John had gained a
respite from the task he dreaded, the task of going in quest of a
successor to Narcisse. Now as he sat consuming his cigarette in
the leisurely fashion so characteristic of his enjoyment--and those
who knew him best were wont to say that Sir John practiced few arts
so studiously as that of enjoyment--he could not banish the figure
of Narcisse from his reverie. A horrible thought assailed him that
this obsession might spring from the fact that on this very morning
Narcisse might have taken his last brief walk out of the door of La
Roquette, and that his disembodied spirit might be hovering around.
Admirable as the cookery of the Marchesa had been, and fully as he
had appreciated it, he felt he would give a good deal to be assured
that on this the last evening of the New Decameron he might sit
down to a dinner prepared by the hand of his departed chef.

That evening the guests gathered round the table with more
empressement than usual. The Marchesa seemed a little flurried,
and Mrs. Sinclair, in a way, shared her excitement. The menu, for