"Well, my dear Comtesse," rejoined Lord Baskerville, "that is all very well to say, but I am certain that you never would get any body to serve you if you did not pay him well; and I must declare that I had rather give a hundred or two more to my cook, than to any other servant in my house; for one's whole domestic comfort depends upon one's cook, don't you think so, Temple?"
"I was always of opinion that you were a wise man, and I am now confirmed in that opinion. Most indubitably one's cook is the great nucleus upon which one's whole existence, mental and physical, depends; for if you eat of a bad greasy ragoût, the physique immediately suffers, and then bilious hypochondria ensues, and one's friends are the victims of one's indigestion; and all the economy of life, in short, goes wrong, if there is a failure in that department."
"Nobody has ever denied," observed Mr. Spencer Newcomb, "que le bonheur est dans l'estomac, and that happiness depends very much on what one eats—and what one eats depends upon the cook. I hold it to be an incontrovertible maxim, que le bonheur des bonheurs is to have a cordon bleu at one's command—even the ladies will agree with me."
"Certainly," said Lady Baskerville, "I account it to be one of the requisites of life."
"Yes," rejoined Mr. Winyard; "for a lady ought to appreciate the beauty of every thing, even of a poulet santé aux truffes; and though I cannot endure a woman to have what is vulgarly called a good appetite—a sort of beef and cabbage voraciousness—I like her to know the various flavours and high-wrought refinements of the palate. Indeed, I am sure she is always vulgar if she does not. But here, we are nearly at the landing-place; and now let us hope to put our theories in practice, and find in this rural retreat a change of viands to recreate and stimulate our somewhat palsied palates."
As the ladies were gathering up their shawls and reticules, Lady Glenmore stooped down to arrange a part of her dress, and the lilies of the valley her husband had given her fell into the water. She made an exclamation, and attempted to catch them, but a breeze bore them beyond her reach. "Oh my nosegay! I would not lose it for the world," she cried.
Mr. Leslie Winyard looking in her face, and seeing that she was eager in her wish to recover the flowers, hastily darted from another part of the boat; and in making an effort to catch them, lost his balance, and fell into the water. As they were literally on the shore, there was no sort of danger, besides that of getting a ducking; but he thought it might avail him something in Lady Glenmore's favour: nor was he mistaken. Seeing him floundering in the water, she cried out, "for God's sake save his life!" and while he made the most of the awkwardness of his situation, he kept brandishing the lilies with one hand, and would not suffer any body to touch them till he delivered them safely to her. She was exceedingly touched by this effort to oblige her, and for the rest of the evening, after he had made a fresh toilette, he reaped the rewards of his gallantry, by finding that Lady Glenmore listened to him with a kind of favourable impression, that he could scarcely have hoped to inspire her with, had not fortune thus favoured him.
During dinner nothing was talked of but the merits of a Richmond party:—"there is surely nothing in the world more beautiful," said Mr. Newcomb, "than the view of Richmond Hill; it is the only riante landscape in England; a perfect Claude; and for my part, I never desire to go farther in quest of the picturesque—it is quite a gentle scene; no horrors, no rugged rocks or torrents; but a sweet, soft, sylvan composition."
"Enlivened too," observed Sir William Temple, "by stage-coaches, and mail-coaches, and coaches of all sorts, in short; without which I hold all views to be very wearisome things à la longue."