rise and betake ourselves elsewhere; to sit on other chairs in a different temperature among different surroundings.  It is a wrench.  That peculiar atmosphere is dissipated; the genius of the earlier moment driven out beyond recapture; we must adapt ourselves to other conditions and begin anew, often with a good deal of trouble—­often, how often, against our inclination!  I call that a perverse custom.  Every state of the mind, whether we are in society or alone, should be pressed to the last drop, irrespective of whether we happen to have swallowed a final mouthful of food or not.  When the conversation has died, as everything must die, from sheer inability to draw further breaths of life, then is the time to break up that old encircling dome of thought; to construct a fresh one, if need be, in a fresh environment.”

“I confess,” said the American, “it has always struck me as rather barbarous—­this running away.  I like to linger.  But the ladies don’t.  They know that their dresses show off better in a parlour than under a boards of a mahogany table; perhaps their conversation, too, sounds better among arm-chairs and rugs.  So we run after then, as we generally do; instead of making them run after us” ("as I do,” he added to himself).  “But, Count!  If you like our American dishes, why not get this man of yours to learn a few from the Duchess?  I know she would gladly teach him; she is not jealous of her knowledge like a professional chef.”

“I would have asked her that favour long ago, if Andrea had been a born cook, like Keith’s men.  Unfortunately he is quite different.  The philosopher is represented in his nature, but not the artist.  He is only a devoted Arcadian, overflowing with good intentions.”

“And are they of no avail?” queried the bishop.

“I have been told that, in art and literature, they will atone for deficiency of natural talent.  It may be so; some persons, at least, have been able to cajole their brains into believing this.  However that may be, I do not think the rule can be extended into the domain of cookery.  Good intentions—­no.  Nobody need attempt such an imposture on his stomach, an upright and uncompromising organ, which refuses to listen to nonsense.  Or let them try the experiment.  Gastritis will be the result of good intentions. . . .”

Mr. Heard stretched out his legs.  He was beginning to feel at ease.  He like this comely old man; he detected an abiding quality in his outlook and person.  And he felt at home in these surroundings.  There was an air of simplicity and refinement in that calm ground-floor chamber, with its subdued light filtering through windows that opened upon the courtyard, groined vaulting of noble proportions, stucco frieze stained with age to an ivory hue, and those other decorations which the Count, loyal to the traditions of old-world peasant architecture, had piously left unaltered—­or, it may be, adapted to modern needs by touches so deft as not to reveal his own consummate artistry.  Through the open door by which they had entered came breathings of warm wind laden with the suave odour of a tuft of Madonna lilies that grew, half neglected, in a shady corner.  He had noticed them on his entry—­how they stood in proud clusters, bending forward with mighty effort to reach the light.