“You have told me that. Don’t rub it in so. I shall play it very well to-morrow.”
“Or next year,” said Karl, still grim, but inwardly full of laughter. “By the way, there was no ‘dog’ motive in the Lady Sunningdale composition.”
“You can’t have been attending,” said Martin. “Suez Canal came in twice, and Sahara three times, with shrill barks. Yes, please, another cutlet.”
Karl watched him eat it. The process took about five seconds.
“You didn’t taste that,” he remarked.
“No; it was needed elsewhere,” said Martin. “But I’m sure it was very good.”
Karl lingered over the bouquet of his Burgundy.
“It is a strange thing,” he said, “that mankind are so gross as to confuse the sense of taste with greediness. No, my dear boy, I am not at this moment attacking you. But there is no organ, even that of the ear, in this wonderful body of ours so fine as that of taste. Yet to most people the sight of a man deeply appreciating his dinner conveys a feeling of greediness. But I always respect such a man. He has a sense more than most people.”
“But isn’t it greedy?” asked Martin.
Karl became deeply impressive. “It is no more greedy,” he said, “to catch the flavour of an olive or an oyster than to catch the tone of a ’cello.”