there is surely no exaggeration in the name. But Mr. Bensington would no more have called it by that name in cold blood than he would have gone out from his flat in Sloane Street clad in regal scarlet and a wreath of laurel. The phrase was a mere first cry of astonishment from him. He called it the Food of the Gods in his enthusiasm, and for an hour or so at the most altogether. After that he decided he was being absurd. When he first thought of the thing he saw, as it were, a vista of enormous possibilities—literally enormous possibilities, but upon this dazzling vista, after one stare of amazement, he resolutely shut his eyes even as a conscientious "scientist" should. After that, the Food of the Gods sounded blatant to the pitch of indecency. He was surprised he had used the expression. Yet for all that something of that clear-eyed moment hung about him and broke out ever and again. . . .
"Really, you know," he said, rubbing his hands together and laughing nervously, "it has more than a theoretical interest.
"For example," he confided, bringing his face close to the Professor's and dropping to an undertone; "it would perhaps, if suitably handled, sell. . . .
"Precisely," he said, walking away—"as a Food. Or at least a food ingredient.
"Assuming of course that it is palatable. A thing we cannot know till we have prepared it."
He turned upon the hearth-rug, and studied the carefully designed slits upon his cloth shoes.
"Name?" he said, looking up in response to an inquiry. "For my part I incline to the good old
8
