“He was not recorded as such in the official despatch from 'Maida,' my Lord,” said Lady Janet, fiercely; “but with some people there is more virtue in being early at dinner than first up the breach in an assault!”
“The siege will always keep hot, my Lady,” interposed a very well-whiskered gentleman in a blue coat and two inside waistcoats; “the soup will not.”
“Ah, Mr. Linton,” said she, holding out two fingers, “why were n't you at our picnic?” Then she added, lower:
“Give me your arm in to dinner. I can't bear that tiresome old man.” Linton bowed and seemed delighted, while a scarcely perceptible motion of the brows conveyed an apology to Miss Kennyfeck.
Dinner was at length announced, and after a little of what Sir Andrew called “clubbing the battalions,” they descended in a long procession. Cashel, after vainly essaying to secure either of the Kennyfeck girls as his companion, being obliged to pair off with Mrs. White, the lady who always declined, but never failed to come.
It is a singular fact in the physiology of Amphytrionism, that second-class people can always succeed in a “great dinner,” though they fail egregiously in all attempts at a small party. We reserve the reason for another time, to record the fact that Mrs. Kennyfeck's table was both costly and splendid. The soups were admirable, the Madeira perfect in flavor, the pâtés as hot and the champagne as cold, the fish as fresh and the venison as long kept, the curry as high seasoned and the pine-apple ice as delicately simple, as the most refined taste could demand. The material enjoyments were provided with elegance and abundance, and the guests—the little chagrin of the long waiting over—all disposed to be chatty and agreeable.
Like a tide first breaking on a low strand, in small and tiny ripples, then gradually coming bolder in, with courage more assured, and greater force, the conversation of a dinner usually runs; till at last at the high flood the great waves tumble madly one upon another, and the wild chorus of the clashing water wakes up “the spirit of the storm.”
Even without the aid of the “Physiologie du Goût,” people will talk of eating while they eat; and so the chitchat was cuisine in all its moods and tenses, each bringing to the common stock some new device in cookery, and some anecdotes of his travelled experience in “gourmandise,” and while Mr. Linton and Lord Charles celebrated the skill of the “Cadran,” or the “Schwan” at Vienna, the Dean was critically explaining to poor Mrs. Kennyfeck that Homer's heroes had probably the most perfect rôti that ever was served, the juices of the meat being preserved in such large masses.
“Soles, with a 'gratin' of fine gingerbread, I saw at Metternich's,” said Mr. Linton, “and they were excellent.”
“I like old Jules Perregaux's idea better, what he calls his côtelettes à la financière.”