The chef emitted a loud purr of satisfaction like an unusually large Persian cat. And then by a still more exquisite coöperation of events than that which had already preceded this incident, who should appear but Jools, behind whom his attendant satellite was mincing with a warmed decanter of wine. “Two more glasses, Jools, if you please,” said the solicitor. “Monsieur le chef and your worthy self will honor us, I hope. The first product of your country will not prove unworthy of two of its most distinguished sons.” A look of rapture sprang to the proud eyes of Jools, and he measured four glasses of wine with an agitation that was more dignified than perfect composure. “To l’Entente Cordiale, messieurs,” said Mr. Whitcomb, raising his glass. “L’Entente Cordiale!” chimed the others. “It is part of my religion,” said Mr. Whitcomb, “never to encounter the artistic temperament without rendering my homage. If we had only a trace of it in this country to fuse and rarefy our other manifold gifts and blessings, I believe we should become the most perfect nation upon the earth.” “Is it not, sir, the absence of it that makes you English so perfect?” said the chef, who had all the alert intelligence of his race. “That is not a thrust, monsieur?” “Ah, no. As a citizen of the world I make it my duty never to wound the English. I respect your country; there are seasons when I adore it.” “Ees it not the land of justice, order, and liberty?” said Jools. “Justice we have for those who can afford to pay for it,” said the solicitor; “that is to say, the poor man is quite unable to purchase it, and even the rich finds it costs a great deal of money. Order we have; it is the birthright of us all--an adumbration of our exaggerated reverence for mud, and stones, and bricks, and mortar. Liberty, Jools, I regret to say, we have not. We are all base slaves--” “Of the External,” said Northcote, with a lustre in his eyes that the wine had kindled. “There is no slave like a Saxon. In his scheme of sense the eye takes precedence. Even his religion is Money.” “Ah, no,” said the chef, with much amiability, “you English have no avarice like we have in my native Normandy.” “An Englishman’s avarice is not of the heart, but of the spirit,” said Northcote, with the melancholy calmness of one who knows everything. “You haf your Shakespeare, your Milton,” said Jools. “I think sometimes we could afford to exchange them both for your Honoré Balzac,” said Northcote. “You would be unwise to do so,” said the chef. “Your Shakespeare is among the first order of mankind. He is greater than Molière; my faith! he is as great as Napoleon.” “Perhaps you are right, but your Honoré Balzac showed the bourgeoisie its every form and feature.” “Truly,” said the chef, with a sly laugh; “but you have ceased to be bourgeois in your England nowadays.”