“I used to have some skill in dressing a salad, but I have foregone the practice for many a day; my culinary gift got me sent out of Austria in twenty-four hours. Oh, it 's nothing that deserves the name of a story,” said Sir Brook, as the others looked at him for an explanation. “It was as long ago as the year 1806. Sir Robert Adair had been our minister at Vienna, when, a rupture taking place between the two Governments, he was recalled. He did not, however, return to England, but continued to live as a private citizen at Vienna. Strangely enough, from the moment that our embassy ceased to be recognized by the Government, our countrymen became objects of especial civility. I myself, amongst the rest, was the _bien-venu_ in some of the great houses, and even invited by Count Cobourg Cohari to those _déjeuners_ which he gave with such splendor at Maria Hülfe. “At one of these, as a dish of salad was handed round, instead of eating it, like the others, I proceeded to make a very complicated dressing for it on my plate, calling for various condiments, and seasoning my mess in a most refined and ingenious manner. No sooner had I given the finishing touch to my great achievement than the Grand-Duchess Sophia, who it seems had watched the whole performance, sent a servant round to beg that I would send her my plate. She accompanied the request with a little bow and a smile whose charm I can still recall. Whatever the reason, before I awoke next morning, an agent of the police entered my room and informed me my passports were made out for Dresden, and that his orders were to give me the pleasure of his society till I crossed the frontier. There was no minister, no envoy to appeal to, and nothing left but to comply. They said 'Go,' and I went.” “And all for a dish of salad!” cried the vicar. “All for the bright eyes of an archduchess, rather,” broke in Lucy, laughing. The old man's grateful smile at the compliment to his gallantry showed how, even in a heart so world-worn, the vanity of youth survived. “I declare it was very hard,” said Tom,--“precious hard.” “If you mean to give up the salad, so think I too,” cried the vicar. “I 'll be shot if I 'd have gone,” broke in Trafford. “You'd probably have been shot if you had stayed,” replied Tom. “There are things we submit to in life, not because the penalty of resistance affrights us, but because we half acquiesce in their justice. You, for instance, Trafford, are well pleased to be here on leave, and enjoy yourself, as I take it, considerably; and yet the call of duty--some very commonplace duty, perhaps--would make you return tomorrow in all haste.” “Of course it would,” said Lucy. “I 'm not so sure of it,” murmured Trafford, sullenly; “I 'd rather go into close arrest for a week than I 'd lose this day here.” “Bravo! here's your health, Lionel,” cried Tom. “I do like to hear a fellow say he is willing to pay the cost of what pleases him.”