CHAPTER XX

OF THE TONGUE OF A WOMAN AND THE FEET OF A GODDESS

Roast beef is now, has been, and probably will be, long acclaimed and proclaimed by every true-born Englishman as his own peculiar diet; vide the old song:

"When mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman's food
It ennobled our hearts and enriched our blood.
O the Roast Beef of Old England
And O for old England's Roast Beef!"

By long association and assimilation it has become, as it were, a national asset, a very part and parcel of the British constitution.

From ages dim and remote it has gone to the building of a sturdy race which, by dint of hard knocks and harder heads, has won for itself a mighty Empire. Our Saxon ancestors devoured it; our Norman conquerors scorned, tasted and—ate of it; our stout yeomen throve on it; our squires and gentry hunt, fight, make speeches and laws upon it; and doubtless future generations shall do the like.

As for myself, I have frequently eaten of it, though never, I fear, with either that awe or appetite which such noble fare justly demands. But to-day within this green bower, blessed by a gentle wind that rustled the leaves about me and stirred Diana's glossy tresses where she sat beside me, I ate of beef, cold, and set between slices of new bread,—ate with a reverent joy as any healthy young Briton should. And presently, meeting the bright glance of my companion, I sighed.