As Sir John helped himself to the next dish,
Venaison sauce Grand Veneur, the feeling of astonishment which had
seized him when he first tasted the fish deepened into something
like Consternation. Had his palate indeed deceived him, or had the
Marchesa, by some subtle effort of experimental genius, divined the
secret of Narcisse--the secret of that incomparable sauce, the
recipe of which was safely bestowed in his pocket-book?
Occasionally he had taken a brief nap under the verandah after
lunch: was it possible that in his sleep he might have murmured,
in her hearing, words which gave the key of the mystery, and the
description of those ingredients which often haunted his dreams?
One thing was certain, that tile savour which rose from the venison
before him was the same which haunted his memory as the parting
effort of the ill-starred Narcisse.
Sir John was the least superstitious of mortals, still here he was
face to face with one of these conjunctions of affairs which the
credulous accept as manifestations of some hidden power, and
sceptics as coincidences and nothing more.
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