the first time, was written in French, a fact which did not escape
Sir John's eye. He made no remark as to the soup; it was the best
of its kind, and its French name made it no better than the other
triumphs in the same field which the Marchesa had achieved. But
when Sir John tasted the first mouthful of the fish he paused, and
after a reflective and regretful look at his plate, he cast his eye
round the table. All the others, however, were too busily intent
in consuming the Turbot la Vatel to heed his interrogative glance,
so he followed suit, and after he had finished his portion, asked,
sotto voce, for another bit.

In the interval before the service of the next dish Sir John made
several vain attempts to catch the Marchesa's eye, and more than
once tried to get in a word; but she kept up a forced and rather
nervous conversation with Lady Considine and Van der Roet, and
refused to listen. As Sir John helped himself to the next dish,
Venaison sauce Grand Veneur, the feeling of astonishment which had
seized him when he first tasted the fish deepened into something
like Consternation. Had his palate indeed deceived him, or had the
Marchesa, by some subtle effort of experimental genius, divined the
secret of Narcisse--the secret of that incomparable sauce, the
recipe of which was safely bestowed in his pocket-book?
Occasionally he had taken a brief nap under the verandah after
lunch: was it possible that in his sleep he might have murmured,
in her hearing, words which gave the key of the mystery, and the
description of those ingredients which often haunted his dreams?
One thing was certain, that tile savour which rose from the venison
before him was the same which haunted his memory as the parting
effort of the ill-starred Narcisse.