The
Fothergill dinners were like all other dinners given by the
Fothergills of society. They were costly, utterly undistinguished,
and invariably graced by the presence of certain guests who seemed
to have been called in out of the street at the last moment. Van
der Roet's Japanese menus were curious, and at times inimical to
digestion, but the personality of the host was charming. As to Sir
John Oglethorpe, the question of the dinner postponed troubled her
little: another repast, the finest that London's finest restaurant
could furnish, would certainly be forthcoming before long. In Sir
John's case, her discomposure took the form of sympathy for her
friend in his recent bereavement. He had been searching all his
life for a perfect cook, and he had found, or believed he had
found, such an one in Narcisse; wherefore the Marchesa was fully
persuaded that, if that artist should evade the guillotine, she
would again taste his incomparable handiwork, even though he were
suspected of murdering his whole family as well as the partner of
his joys.
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