A few days after the dinner at Mr. Grey’s, as the Marquess of Carabas was sitting in his library, and sighing, in the fulness of his ennui, as he looked on his large library table, once triply covered with official communications, now thinly besprinkled with a stray parliamentary paper or two, his steward’s accounts, and a few letters from some grumbling tenants, Mr. Vivian Grey was announced.
“I fear I am intruding on your Lordship, but I really could not refrain from bringing you the receipt I promised.”
“Most happy to see ye, most happy to see ye.”
“This is exactly the correct receipt, my Lord. TO EVERY TWO BOTTLES OF STILL CHAMPAGNE, ONE PINT OF CURAÇAO.” The Peer’s eyes glistened, and his companion proceeded; “ONE PINT OF CURAÇAO; CATCH THE AROMA OF A POUND OF GREEN TEA, AND DASH THE WHOLE WITH GLENLIVET.”
“Splendid!” ejaculated the Marquess.
“The nice point, however, which it is impossible to define in a receipt, is catching the aroma. What sort of a genius is your Lordship’s chêf”
“First-rate! Laporte is a genius.”
“Well, my Lord! I shall be most happy to superintend the first concoction for you; and remember particularly,” said Vivian, rising, “remember it must be iced.”
“Certainly, my dear fellow; but pray don’t think of going yet.”
“I am very sorry, my Lord; but such a pressure of engagements; your Lordship’s kindness is so great, and, really, I fear, that at this moment especially, your Lordship can scarcely be in a humour for my trifling.”