"Good gracious!" she cried. "The ham is ruined."
It was burnt black. She prepared a fresh supply. When it was ready, Jenks was himself again. They ate in silence, and shared the remains of the bottle. The man idly wondered what was the plat du jour at the Savoy that evening. He remembered that the last time he was there he had called for Jambon de York aux épinards and half a pint of Heidseck.
"Coelum non animum mutant, qui trans mare currant," he thought. By a queer trick of memory he could recall the very page in Horace where this philosophical line occurs. It was in the eleventh epistle of the first book. A smile illumined his tired face.
Iris was watchful. She had never in her life cooked even a potato or boiled an egg. The ham was her first attempt.
"My cooking amuses you?" she demanded suspiciously.
"It gratifies every sense," he murmured. "There is but one thing needful to complete my happiness."
"And that is?"
"Permission to smoke."
"Smoke what?"
He produced a steel box, tightly closed, and a pipe, "I will answer you in Byron's words," he said—