Thus it has been related that two men who had met for the first time at a certain country house-party were getting on together capitally in the evening over their whisky and soda and cigars. Each held identical views of equal violence on some important topic—Home Rule or the Transvaal or Free Trade—and, as the more masterful of the two asserted that hanging was too good for Blank (naming a well-known statesman), the other would reply: "I quite agree with you: hanging is too good for Blank."
"He ought to be burned alive," said the one.
"That's about it: he ought to be burned at the stake," answered the other.
"Look at the way he treated Dash! He's a coward and a damned scoundrel!"
"Perfectly right. He's a damned cursed scoundrel!"
This was splendid, and each thought the other a charming companion. Unfortunately, however, the conversation, by some caprice, veered from the iniquities of Blank and glanced aside to cookery—possibly by the track of Irish stew, used metaphorically to express the disastrous and iniquitous policy of the great statesman with regard to Ireland. But, as it happened, there was not the same coincidence on the question of cookery as there had been on the question of Blank. The masterful man said:
"No cookery like English. No other race in the world can cook as we do. Look at French cookery—a lot of filthy, greasy messes."
Now, instead of assenting briskly and firmly as before the other man said: "Been much in France? Lived there?"
"Never set foot in the beastly country! Don't like their ways, and don't care to dine off snails and frogs swimming in oil."
The other man began then to talk of the simple but excellent meals he had relished in France—the savoury croûte-au-pot, the bouilli—good eating when flavoured by a gherkin or two; velvety épinards au jus, a roast partridge, a salad, a bit of Roquefort and a bunch of grapes. But he had barely mentioned the soup when the masterful one wheeled round his chair and offered a fine view of his strong, well-knit figure—as seen from the back. He did not say anything—he simply took up the paper and went on smoking. The other men stared in amazement: the amateur of French cookery looked annoyed. But the host—a keen-eyed old fellow with a white moustache, turned to the enemy of frogs and snails and grease and said quite simply: "I say, Mulock, I never knew you'd been at Lupton."