- ant satellite was mincing with a warmed decanter
of wine.
"Two more glasses, Jools, if you please," said the solicitor. "Monsieur le chef and your worthy self will honor us, I hope. The first product of your country will not prove unworthy of two of its most distinguished sons."
A look of rapture sprang to the proud eyes of Jools, and he measured four glasses of wine with an agitation that was more dignified than perfect composure.
"To l'Entente Cordiale, messieurs," said Mr. Whitcomb, raising his glass.
"L'Entente Cordiale!" chimed the others.
"It is part of my religion," said Mr. Whitcomb, "never to encounter the artistic temperament without rendering my homage. If we had only a trace of it in this country to fuse and rarefy our other manifold gifts and blessings, I believe we should become the most perfect nation upon the earth."
"Is it not, sir, the absence of it that makes you English so perfect?" said the chef, who had all the alert intelligence of his race.
"That is not a thrust, monsieur?"
"Ah, no. As a citizen of the world I make it my duty never to wound the English. I respect your country; there are seasons when I adore it."
"Ees it not the land of justice, order, and liberty?" said Jools.
"Justice we have for those who can afford to pay for it," said the solicitor; "that is to say, the poor man is quite unable to purchase it, and even the rich finds it costs a great deal of money. Order
