One glance at Ewing's perturbed but mystified face assured Teevan that the climax of exposure had not been reached. He bustled amiably about the room, kissing the hand of Mrs. Lowndes, shaking the hand of the doctor, straightening a picture on the wall, and, at last, lighting a cigarette as he faced the room from his favorite post on the hearth rug.
"I ran in for a moment to see how my lady prospered," with a graceful wave of the expiring match toward Mrs. Lowndes, "and all is well. I find her holding court to youth and age, to wit and wisdom, all of which she combines graciously in her own person. She is looking weary, perhaps, but rejoiced. Gentlemen, you have served her well. Doubtless our young friend here, Mr.—Ah, yes, Mr. Ewing—has talked enchantingly. I've had an art evening with him myself." He bestowed a glance of benevolent approval on Ewing, who smiled in return.
"By the way, my lady, I've sent you a brace of birds that lived their little span of woods life between last spring and yesterday. Ah, but they came to a fluent richness of body, brown and plump and tender as first love, and tanged with autumn spices—so blessed be the piece that brought them low. Doctor, you'd dissect them for their nerve centers or the intricacies of their bone structure, but I find them admirable in all aspects. They rejoice my scientific soul even as they lure my carnal man. Isn't it Duceps, the falconer, friend of old Izaak, who speaks of birds that both feed and refresh man—'feed him with their choice bodies, and refresh him with their heavenly voices'? There was a normal person, now—not one-sided."
The atmosphere cleared of its cloud wrack as his speech flowed, marked by pointings of the small, crisp mustache and gracious little pauses of appeal to each of the listeners in turn.
From edible songsters he progressed to the cooking of these, and thence to speech on the art of cooking at large. There were pessimists, it seemed, to bemoan the day when a maître d'hôtel would die rather than outlive the dishonor of his master's table, as when Vatel stabbed himself because the fish for one of Condé's dinners failed to arrive on time—proving, as Savarin observed, that the fanaticism of honor could exist in the kitchen as well as in the camp. But in the opinion of the speaker these were pinchbeck heroics. Vatel would have been the truer Frenchman, certainly the better chef, if, instead of wreaking a messy violence on himself in his master's kitchen, he had contrived an entrée to replace the missing fish. And we should remember, too, that the French, good cooks as they are, have but elaborated an art for the germinal principals of which they are indebted to Italian genius. Italy first saw the revival of cookery as she first saw the revival of learning. The land of Savarin lay in darkness until light was brought by those incomparable artists in the train of Catharine de Medicis. One might recall how Montaigne was captivated in the land of Horace by the weighty manner of the chef of Cardinal Caraffa in discoursing upon the occultisms of his art. The Italians even then held the thing hardly second to theology.
The little man here permitted a pause in which he discarded his cigarette and readjusted the carnation in his lapel, with a sniff at its spiciness. Then he turned graciously to Ewing.
"But I must be off—time races so in this little nook! If you're stepping on, Mr.—Ah, yes—Ewing, to be sure—if you're leaving, I shall be glad to join you as far as the avenue. My dutiful love, lady, and to you, doctor, that virtue which superstition ascribes to your pellets. The word 'health' could never have been coined by the healthy, could it? I dislike to use the word baldly."
Ewing rose, glad of the exit thus provided. It was kind of people to concern themselves about his affairs, but he wished they could be less peculiar. He bowed to Mrs. Lowndes and shook hands with the doctor. He, at least, was understandable.
When they had gone the old lady faced her friend with a calmness that surprised him.
"Fred, what sorry, what terrible things can make us young again! I feel now as I felt that other night—just at this hour so many years ago—when I knew she'd gone—knew she'd gone."