And old Heythorp, digesting his osyters, snuffed the scent of the hyacinths, and thought of the St. Germain, his favourite soup.  It would n’t be first-rate, at this time of year—­should be made with little young home-grown peas.  Paris was the place for it.  Ah!  The French were the fellows for eating, and—­looking things in the face!  Not hypocrites—­not ashamed of their reason or their senses!

The soup came in.  He sipped it, bending forward as far as he could, his napkin tucked in over his shirt-front like a bib.  He got the bouquet of that sherry to a T—­his sense of smell was very keen to-night; rare old stuff it was—­more than a year since he had tasted it—­but no one drank sherry nowadays, hadn’t the constitution for it!  The fish came up, and went down; and with the sweetbread he took his second glass of champagne.  Always the best, that second glass—­the stomach well warmed, and the palate not yet dulled.  Umm!  So that fellow thought he had him beaten, did he?  And he said suddenly: 

“The fur coat in the wardrobe, I’ve no use for it.  You can take it away to-night.”

With tempered gratitude the valet answered: 

“Thank you, sir; much obliged, I’m sure.”  So the old buffer had found out there was moth in it!

“Have I worried you much?”

“No, sir; not at all, sir—­that is, no more than reason.”

“Afraid I have.  Very sorry—­can’t help it.  You’ll find that, when you get like me.”

“Yes, sir; I’ve always admired your pluck, sir.

“Um!  Very good of you to say so.”

“Always think of you keepin’ the flag flying’, sir.”

Old Heythorp bent his body from the waist.

“Much obliged to you.”

“Not at all, sir.  Cook’s done a little spinach in cream with the soubees.”

“Ah!  Tell her from me it’s a capital dinner, so far.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Alone again, old Heythorp sat unmoving, his brain just narcotically touched.  “The flag flyin’—­the flag flyin’!” He raised his glass and sucked.  He had an appetite now, and finished the three cutlets, and all the sauce and spinach.  Pity! he could have managed a snipe fresh shot!  A desire to delay, to lengthen dinner, was strong upon him; there were but the souffle’ and the savoury to come.  He would have enjoyed, too, someone to talk to.  He had always been fond of good company—­been good company himself, or so they said—­not that he had had a chance of late.  Even at the Boards they avoided talking to him, he had noticed for a long time.  Well! that wouldn’t trouble him again—­he had sat through his last Board, no doubt.  They shouldn’t kick him off, though; he wouldn’t give them that pleasure—­had seen the beggars hankering after his chairman’s shoes too long.  The souffle was before him now, and lifting his glass, he said: 

“Fill up.”

“These are the special glasses, sir; only four to the bottle.”