It had been my good fortune to give to Mademoiselle Faustine, a charming little actress, a tip for the Welter Plate last spring. What more natural than that I should ask her to give me a dinner as some slight return? She readily accepted, and asked me to name the day. Glancing at the sixth volume of my engagement book, I found my first vacant date was June 18, '97. This was fortunate, as it is hardly possible—except at Voisin's—to get a decent dinner unless you order it a year in advance.

"Where shall we dine?" asked Faustine.

"There is only one place where people do dine," I answered, a little reproachfully. "The Bon MarchÉ. I will order the dinner."

So the place and the date were fixed.

As Faustine was a quarter of an hour late—I had not seen her since our arrangement—I waited in the alabaster portico of the Bon MarchÉ, chatting amiably to the courteous commissionaire, an old comrade of mine in the Wimbledon days. Jules, the courteous chef, was au dÉsespoir. Why had I not given him more notice? Madame was fifteen minutes late. If he had only known! In a year and fifteen minutes it is possible to cook a dinner. In a year—no. I tried to calm the worthy fellow—an old ally of mine in the Crimean war. In vain; he complained the sardines were spoiling. So I went into the dining-room, nodding courteously to eight princes of the blood, neither of whom appeared, for the moment, to recognise me.

As I seated myself, the entire staff, headed by a brass band, brought me my sardines À l'huile. These are a specialitÉ of the house, and are never—should never be, at least—eaten with the tin. The potage À la potasse was quite excellent. I congratulated the courteous chef, pointing out to him the desirability of mixing, sometimes, a little anti-pyrine into the potassium—both drugs far too rarely used in modern cookery. Then came the question of wine. This I solved for the moment by ordering two Jeroboams of Stereoscopic Company et Fils; a cuvÉe of '80, absolutely reservÉe for my own use. As I had engaged the entire staff of waiters, a crown prince, who was entertaining one of our leading bicyclists, rose to leave, with his guest. I smiled and nodded to them as they passed, which appeared to hasten their departure.

The moulin À vent was delicious, but the dindon dÉcousu I could not pass. No self-respecting gourmet will pass everything at a dinner.

Gontran, the kindly maÎtre d'hÔtel, was almost in tears, but I consoled him by observing that the ostriches were cooked to a turn, and the bombe glacÉe À l'anarchiste faultless.

But my hostess? Where was she? Where was Mademoiselle Faustine? I had quite forgotten her! I beckoned to Hagenbock, the press representative of the restaurant, who informed me she had been dead eight months! I, who read nothing but menus, had omitted to notice this in the papers. I was greatly pained. The shock unnerved me—I could eat no more. Besides, who was now to pay the bill?

I reproduce the bill.

Couverts, £5. Diners, £36 8s. Pain, 2s. Champagne, £47. Liqueurs, 15s. Addition, 3s.

In all, £89 8s.—(This is one of the few restaurants where a charge is made for the addition.)

"Make out the bill," said I, "in francs, and send it to the executors of Mademoiselle Faustine."

II.

Monsieur Victor de Train-de-Luxe is in many respects a delightful person. In other ways he is not. For instance, because he was, accidentally, the cause of my backing a winner at Ascot (simply by means of ordinary stable information), he had the bad taste to suggest that I should stand him a dinner.

I said, "Certainly, my dear Comte" (Comte being the courtesy title I invariably give to foreigners from whom I have the hope of borrowing money).

"Where shall it be?"

"There is only one place where one can dine," I said.

"Of course—the Bon MarchÉ," he replied.

"No," I answered. "No, mon ami. If you wish to eat a really characteristic English dinner, come to the Vegetarian Restaurant in Edgware Road. Come along. Come, now!"

"But it's only six o'clock. I am not hungry."

"All the better," I replied. And I also pointed out to him that the best way to see London is outside an omnibus. So we started.

Arrived at the restaurant, I was enthusiastically received by the courteous cashier, who presented me with a previous bill, which, I noticed, had not been receipted. I said I thought it rather rude to present a gentleman with a bill which they hadn't taken the trouble to receipt.

We sat down.

"I'm glad," I said to Victor, "that I didn't know this dinner was coming off to-day. If I had had notice, I might have ordered it beforehand; and a dinner, to be perfection, should be eaten, if possible, on the day it is cooked. At least, that's what I always think. I may be wrong."

Monsieur de Train-de-Luxe smiled, said I was a farceur, and I ordered our dinner.

First, some turnip turtle soup, then, ortolans of spinach and mashed potatoes, followed by a canvas-backed duck made of Indian corn, and last, not least, plum-pudding. As all will agree, this makes a very delicious and seasonable repast. Long dinners have quite gone out of fashion. And this was washed down with a sparkling bottle of orange champagne, '97.

My friend Victor, who is rather a gourmet, was so struck with the first mouthful of soup, that he said it was quite enough, observing, he had never tasted anything like it.

Pleased with this praise, I asked his opinion of the ortolans. He said that their aroma dispensed with the necessity for their consumption. He was evidently surprised.

When the bill was presented by the courteous "chucker-out," we found that most unluckily neither of us had any money.

I append the bill.

Dinners (for two), 1s. 9d. Champagne, 3d. Total, 2s.

To this I ought really to add:—

Cab (for three) to Marylebone Police Court, 1s. 6d. (The constable refused to walk without us.)

Loss to reputation by report of proceedings, 8d.

The Business of Pleasure

Professor Guzzleton (to Fair Chatterbox). Are you aware that our host has a French cook?

Fair Chatterbox. So I hear!

Professor Guzzleton. And that that French cook is the best in London?

Fair Chatterbox. So I believe!

Professor Guzzleton. Then don't you think we had better defer all further conversation till we meet again in the drawing-room?

"My uncle, the admiral," said Mrs. Ramsbotham, "is very old fashioned, and always goes to sleep every day after dinner with his banana on his head."

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