He was not going to propose a formal vote of thanks, because anything he could say would be entirely insufficient to express the gratitude he felt, and because he deemed that each individual could best thank the Marchesa on his or her behalf.

There was a momentary silence when the Colonel ceased, and then a clearing of the throat and a preliminary movement of the arms gave warning that Mrs. Gradinger was going to speak. The unspoken passage from Racine evidently sat heavily on her chest. Abstracted and overwrought as he was, these symptoms aroused in Sir John a consciousness of impending danger, and he rushed, incontinent, into the breach, before the lady's opening sentence was ready.

"As Colonel Trestrail has just remarked, we, all of us, are in debt to the Marchesa in no small degree; but, in my case, the debt is tenfold. I am sure you all understand why. As a slight acknowledgment of the sympathy I have received from every one here, during my late trial, I beg to ask you all to dine with me this day week, when I will try to set before you a repast à la Frangqise, which I hope may equal - I cannot hope that it will excel - the dinners all Italiana we have tasted in this happy retreat. Narcisse and I have already settled the menu."

"I am delighted to accept," said the Marchesa. "I have no engagement, and if I had I would throw my best friend over."

"And this day fortnight you must all dine with me," said Mrs. Sinclair. "I will spend the intervening days in teaching my new cook how to reproduce the Marchesa's dishes. Then, perhaps, we may be in a better position to decide on the success of the Marchesa's experiment."

The next morning witnessed the dispersal of the party. Sir John and Narcisse left by an early train, and for the next few days the reforming hand of the last-named was active in the kitchen. He arrived before the departure of the temporary aide, and had not been half-an-hour in the house before there came an outbreak which might easily have ended in the second appearance of Narcisse at the bar of justice, as homicide, this time to be dealt with by a prosaic British jury, which would probably have doomed him to the halter. Sir John listened over the balusters to the shrieks and howls of his recovered treasure, and wisely decided to lunch at his club. But the club lunch, admirable as it was, seemed flat and unappetising after the dainty yet simple dishes he had recently tasted; and the following day he set forth to search for one of those Italian restaurants, of which he had heard vague reports. Certainly the repast would not be the same as at the "Laurestinas," but it might serve for once. Alas! Sir John did not find the right place - for there are "right places" amongst the Italian restaurants of London. He beat a hasty retreat from the first he entered, when the officious proprietor assured him that he would serve up a déjeûner in the best French style.

At the second he chose a dish with an Italian name, but the name was the only Italian thing about it. The experiment had failed. It seemed as if Italian restaurateurs were sworn not to cook Italian dishes, and the next day he went to do as best he could at the club.

But before he reached the club door he recalled how, many years ago, he and other young bloods used to go for chops to Morton's, a queer little house at the back of St. James' Street, and towards Morton's he now turned his steps. As he entered it it seemed as if it was only yesterday that he was there. He beheld the waiter, with mouth all awry, through calling down the tube. The same old mahogany partitions to the boxes, and the same horse-hair benches. Sir John seated himself in a box, where there was one other luncher in the corner, deeply absorbed over a paper. This luncher raised his head and Sir John recognised Van der Roet.

"My dear Vander, whatever brought you here, where nothing is to be had but chops? I didn't know you could eat a chop."

"I didn't know it myself till to-day," said Van der Roet, with a hungry glance at the waiter, who rushed by with a plate of smoking chops in each hand. "The fact is, I've had a sort of hankering after an Italian lunch, and 1 went out to find one, but I didn't exactly hit on the right shop, so I came here, where I've been told you can get a chop properly cooked, if you don't mind waiting."

"Ah! I see," said Sir John, laughing. "We've both been on the same quest, and have been equally unlucky. Well, we shall satisfy our hunger here at any rate, and not unpleasantly either."

"I went to one place," said Van der Roet, "and before ordering I asked the waiter if there was any garlic in the dish I had ordered. 'Garlic, aglio, no, sir, never.' Whereupon I thought I would go somewhere else. Next I entered the establishment of Baldassare Romanelli. How could a man with such a name serve anything else than the purest Italian cookery, I reasoned, so I ordered, unquestioning, a piatto with an ideal Italian name, Manzo alla Terracina. Alas! the beef used in the composition thereof must have come in a refrigerating chamber from pastures more remote than those of Terracina, and the sauce served with it was simply fried onions. In short, my dish was beefsteak and onions, and very bad at that. So in despair I fell back upon the trusty British chop."

As Van der Roet ceased speaking another guest entered the room, and he and Sir John listened attentively while the new-comer gave his order. There was no mistaking the Colonel's strident voice. "Now, look here! I want a chop underdone - underdone, you understand, with a potato, and a small glass of Scotch whisky - and I'll sit here."

"The Colonel, by Jove," said Sir John; "I expect he's been restaurant-hunting too."

"Hallo!" said the Colonel, as he recognised the other two, "I never thought I should meet you here: fact is, I've been reading about agricultural depression, and how it is the duty of everybody to eat chops so as to encourage the mutton trade, and that sort of thing."

"Oh, Colonel, Colonel," said Van der Roet. "You know you've been hungering after the cookery of Italy, and trying to find a genuine Italian lunch, and have failed, just as Sir John and I failed, and have come here in despair. But never mind, just wait for a year or so, until the 'Cook's Decameron' has had a fair run for its' money, and then you'll find you'll fare as well at the ordinary Italian restaurant as you did at the 'Laurestinas,' and that's saying a good deal."