“Divine, dear,” sighed the Lady Amelia.
Thus, said Dwight-Rankin, the dinner proceeded with a degree of animation, of gaiety, that was unusual even about Lady Surplice’s memorable table. The morale of the diners was excellent: their address polite, their appetites suave, their wit easy and swift: their ton, in fine, irreproachable. While even His Highness the Prince de Finaleauseltz was so agreeably affected by the swift interchange of repartee and back-chat that, Dwight-Rankin assured me, he contributed on two separate occasions to the entertainment. However....
All was, therefore, going beautifully when the Lady Fay Paradise remarked, with amusement not untinged with repulsion, that someone had spilled the salt.
“La!” cried Lady Pynte.
“Who has spilled the salt?” cried Lady Surplice.
“The Lord Chancellor has spilled the salt,” said Mr. Warp.
“Hell!” said the Lord Chancellor.
“Over your shoulder, over your shoulder!” cried Lady Pynte.
“Oh, Percy!” cried my lady. “To spill the salt is most unlucky!”
“Oh, pouf!” said the Lady Amelia.