And, believe me, when Doris described him as lookin’ a little odd she’s said sumpun.  Cyril was all of that.  As far as figures goes he’s big and impressive enough, with sort of a dignified bulge around the equator.  But that face of his, with the white showin’ through the pink, and the pink showin’ through the white in the most unexpected places!  Like a scraped radish.  No, that don’t give you the idea of his color scheme exactly.  Say a half parboiled baby.  For the pink spots on his chin and forehead was baby pink, and the white of his cheeks and ears was a clear, waxy white, like he’d been made up by an artist.  Then, the thin gray hair, cropped so close the pink scalp glimmered through; and the wide mouth with the quirky corners; and the greenish pop-eyes with the heavy bags underneath—­well, that was a map to remember.

And the worst of it was, I couldn’t.  Sure, I’d met it.  No doubt about that.  But I follows the bunch into the house like I was in a trance, starin’ at Cyril over Westy’s shoulder and askin’ myself urgent, “Where have I seen that face before?” No, I couldn’t place him.  And you know how a thing like that will bother you.  It got me in the appetite.

Maybe it was just as well, too, for I’d got half way through the soup before I notices anything the matter with it.  My guess was that it tasted scorchy.  I glances around at Vee, and finds she’s just makin’ a bluff at eatin’ hers.  Doris and Westy ain’t even doin’ that, and when I drops my spoon Doris signals to take it away.  Which Cyril does, movin’ as solemn and dignified as if he was usherin’ at a funeral.  Then there’s a stage wait for three or four minutes before the fish is brought in, Cyril paddin’ around ponderous with the plates.  Doris beckons him up and demands in a whisper: 

“Where is Helma?”

“Helma, ma’am,” says he, “is taking the evening out.”

“But—­” begins Doris, then stops and bites her lip.

The fish could have stood some of the surplus cookin’ that the soup got.  It wa’n’t exactly eatable fish, and the potato marbles that come with it should have been numbered; then they’d be useful in Kelley pool.  Yes, they was a bit hard.  Doris gets red under the eyes and waves out the fish.

She stands it, though, until that two-pound roast is put before Westy.  Not such a whale of a roast, it ain’t.  It’s a one-rib affair, like an overgrown chop, and it reposes lonesome in the middle of a big silver platter.  It’s done, all right.  Couldn’t have been more so if it had been cooked in a blast-furnace.  Even the bone was charred through.

Westy he gazes at it in his mild, helpless way, and pokes it doubtful with the carvin’-fork.

“I say, Cyr—­er—­Snee,” says he, “what’s this?”

“The roast, sir,” says the butler.

“The deuce it is!” says Westy.  “Do—­do I use a saw or dynamite?” And he stares across at Doris inquirin’.