rather cold-shouldered, for the Englishman—and in this case, as the preacher put it, man embraces woman—whatever his respect for literature in the abstract, thinks but meanly of those who produce it, if they do not happen to be celebrities. To be sure they are generally poor.
"Vill you beef, muddon, schiken, or feal?" whispered Müller, making his round when soup and fish had been removed.
"Veal, please," said Miss Semaphore.
"Feal, blease," said Müller under his breath, to impress the order on his mind.
"Vill you beef, muddon, schiken, or feal, Madame?"
"A portion—a tiny portion of the—a—chest of the fowl," said Mrs. Whitley.
"Roast beef," growled Mr. Lorimer, and Müller echoed "beef," adding "blease" on his own account.
"I saw you to-day, Major Jones, but you did not see me," said the younger Miss Semaphore archly, when the interest of choosing had subsided.
"You what?" asked Major Jones mildly. He was rather deaf.
"I said that I saw you to-day—down in the City, you know. Fancy! I went all
