Leo followed Paz to a small cavern hung with a velvety gray moss, on which were clusters of red berries.  A small electric light burned in a globe of crystal, set in bands of turquoise, and shone upon a table which, like the bed he had used, was composed of several small ones, covered with a cloth of crimson plush, over which was again spread a white fabric of the thinnest texture and edged with lace.  On this was laid a dinner service, so small that it was evidently more for ornament than use.  Plates of crystal were bordered with gems, and jars and cups of embossed metal glittered with precious stones.  He was obliged, however, to eat his soup from the tureen, and the turnip, now cooked in a sort of pate, was presented on a silver platter.  Slices of smoked rabbit, with salted steaks of prairie-dog, were offered in place of the quail, which had not come; but Leo, having a fondness for sweets, saw with wonder one tart made from about a quarter of an apple.  This proved to be such a sweet morsel that he kept Paz running for more until he had eaten a dozen.  No wine was offered, but ices which looked like heaps of snow with the sun shining on them were dissolving in glass vases, and water as pure as the dew filled his goblet.  Rising refreshed from his meal Leo met Knops coming towards him.  He had exchanged his dress for what looked like a bathing suit of India rubber.

“Are you rested?” he inquired, kindly.

“Oh yes, very much, and I must thank you and Paz for so good a dinner,” responded Leo.

“Don’t mention it.  If I had not acted on the spur of the moment, when the impulse to amuse you seized me, I would have been better prepared.  We use many things for food which you would disdain, but I might have secured antelope meat or Rocky Mountain mutton, and by way of rarity something from Russia or China.  Have you ever tasted birds’ nests.”

“Never.”

“But I suppose you know why they are thought so great a delicacy?”

“No.”

“It is merely the gluten with which they are fastened together, so to speak, by the birds, which renders them agreeable.  The Chinese like rats, and in this we agree with them.  Well dressed, stuffed with chestnuts or olives, and roasted, they are delicious.”

Leo made a wry face.

“Ah! you are not cosmopolitan.”

“What is that?”

“A citizen of the world, a person free from national prejudices.  Ah, these words are long for you; I will try to be simple:  you have not learned to eat everything that is good.”

“But rats are not good; they are vermin.”

“Bah! yes, because you let them feed like your hogs on anything.  We do better; we pen them, and give them grain until they are fat and sweet, and make them eatable.”

Leo could not disguise his dislike, so Knops, shrugging his shoulders, did not attempt any longer to convince him, but said,

“Are you interested in what I have shown you?”