“They have smokeless powder now; maybe they’ll have fireless chafing dishes next,” said Morris.
A spot of alcohol in the far corner of the tray had suddenly risen in a thin flame, giving point to Leighton’s remark.
“Young people are terribly nervous these days,” remarked Merriam, stifling the blaze imperturbably.
“‘Myself when young—’” hummed Zelda. “We’re never really old until we begin to lament the past. But you’re doing it charmingly, uncle, with quite a touch,—avec empressement.” She raised her arm and drew an imaginary straight line in the air with the points of her fingers.
“It’s a way I have. I’m glad you appreciate it,”—and Merriam nodded to the Japanese boy to put the plates within reach. The lobster diffused a cheering aroma through the air as the old gentleman served it.
“It’s delicious. It’s a credit to Mr. à la Newberg,” said Zelda, as she tasted it.
“It’s very indigestible, isn’t it, Rodney?” asked Mrs. Forrest, guardedly.
“It is, Julia. The best authorities place it next to ten-penny nails for indigestibility. But it’s good; and it’s better to die than to live lobsterless. Morris, that bottle of ale is yours.”
Rodney Merriam had an eye for effects and he thought his guests fitted very well into his dining-room. The furniture was all massive; the walls were decorated in bright red; and the silver on the sideboard and the crystal in the quaint old cabinet in the corner added to the charm of the room. There was no jarring note; the whole house was irreproachably clean; but a man’s house always has rigid lines. It is ordained of Heaven that women shall possess certain things, and the home touch is a feminine gift, that no man has ever been able to impart, charm he never so wisely and spend he never so lavishly.
A New York friend who once spent a week with Rodney Merriam in Seminary Square said on leaving that the house was as good as a club; that the only thing he had missed was the signing of checks for what he ordered. Men regard a club as paradise brought to earth, not because they escape there from things feminine or can command a cool siphon by ringing a bell; but because they like full swing at a club kitchen. It is a heart-breaking thing in any man’s life when he knows to a moral certainty that the roast on Monday, week after week, will be beef; that on Tuesday it will be fowl, while Wednesday will bring mutton with capers, and so on, to the regular Saturday evening corned beef. It is not that he dislikes any one of these things; it’s their inevitableness that causes his brow to darken and all the griefs of a busy day to becloud his table talk. For the stomachs of men are children and like to be surprised.