incomplete state of physical development.  The true cook must be mature; she must know the world form her social point of view, however humble it be; she must have pondered concerning good and evil, in however lowly and incongruous a fashion; she must have passed through the crucible of sin and suffering or, at the very least—­it is often the same thing—­of married life.  Best of all, she should have a lover, a fierce and brutal lover who beats and caresses her in turns; for every woman worthy of the name is subject and entitled to fluctuating psychic needs—­needs which must be satisfied to the very core, if the master is to enjoy sound, healthy fare.”

“We don’t always allow them to fulfil that last condition,” observed Mr. Heard.

“I know we don’t.  That is precisely why we are so often poisoned or starved, instead of being cheered with wholesome food.”

“You were speaking of woman-cooks?” asked van Koppen.

“I was.  But it stands to reason that no woman can be trusted with so responsible a task—­so sacred a mission, I ought to call it—­in regions south of Bordeaux or east of Vienna.  Among many other reasons the whole sex is too drowsy, outside that radius.  And if she drinks a little—­”

“Drinks a little?”

“If she drinks a little, why it is all to the good.  It shows that she is fully equipped on the other side of her dual nature.  It proves that she possesses the prime requisite of the artist; sensitiveness and a capacity for enthusiasm.  Indeed, I often doubt whether you will ever derive well-flavoured victuals from the atelier of an individual who honestly despises or fears—­it is the same thing—­the choicest gift of God.  Andrea, my man here, is abstemious to the last degree; not, I am glad to say, from conviction or ill-health—­it is the same thing—­but because he is incurably desirous of saving my money.  What is the consequence?  You can taste his self-imposed asceticism in the very ZABBAGLIONE, for which I must really apologize!  It speaks to the eye, but not to the heart.  Let us hope the coffee will be more harmonious.”

“Would you not include some of our American dishes in your bill of fare?”

“To be sure I would; a fine selection.  I have most pleasant recollections of the cuisine of Baltimore.”

“You can get all those things in New York.”

“No doubt; no doubt.  But one thing invariably distresses me in transatlantic dinners:  the unseemly haste in rising.  One might really think the company were ashamed of so natural and jovial a function as that to which a dining-room is consecrated.  And then, have you not noticed that, sitting at table, a certain intellectual tone, an atmosphere of a definite kind, is insensibly generated among the guests, whatever the subject of conversation may be?  They are often quite unaware of its existence, but it hangs none the less about the room and binds the inmates together for the time being.  Suddenly we are bidden to