mantel above the tile stove, the larder that he always raided late at night.
"I wonder," he added, "if there's any chance of onion soup?"
For twenty years Herr Guadeloupe had had onion soup for supper almost every evening. In fact in his electoral campaign onion soup had become almost a political symbol. The cartoonists had seized upon it as an emblem of solid proletarian thrift and the traditional Illyrian simplicities. Drawings of Herr Guadeloupe dipping in his tureen and puffing his pipe, first intended for ridicule, had proved to be advantageous. The Labour Party had been borne to power, in a manner of speaking, on a tide of onion soup.
"We may as well find out," said Nyla. "And Daddy, you must remember they probably call it dinner, and it won't be until late, seven o'clock I dare say."
Summoned by the footmen, Romsteck appeared. He looked specially austere as he had not expected to be interrupted just then. He
