On the day before, after breakfast, Horace had summoned his landlady to a consultation on the _menu_. "Nothing elaborate, you know, Mrs. Rapkin," said Horace, who, though he would have liked to provide a feast of all procurable delicacies for Sylvia's refection, was obliged to respect her father's prejudices. "Just a simple dinner, thoroughly well cooked, and nicely served--as you know so well how to do it." "I suppose, sir, you would require Rapkin to wait?" As the ex-butler was liable to trances on these occasions during which he could do nothing but smile and bow with speechless politeness as he dropped sauce-boats and plates, Horace replied that he thought of having someone in to avoid troubling Mr. Rapkin; but his wife expressed such confidence in her husband's proving equal to all emergencies, that Ventimore waived the point, and left it to her to hire extra help if she thought fit. "Now, what soup can you give us?" he inquired, as Mrs. Rapkin stood at attention and quite unmollified. After protracted mental conflict, she grudgingly suggested gravy soup--which Horace thought too unenterprising, and rejected in favour of mock turtle. "Well then, fish?" he continued; "how about fish?" Mrs. Rapkin dragged the depths of her culinary resources for several seconds, and finally brought to the surface what she called "a nice fried sole." Horace would not hear of it, and urged her to aspire to salmon; she substituted smelts, which he opposed by a happy inspiration of turbot and lobster sauce. The sauce, however, presented insuperable difficulties to her mind, and she offered a compromise in the form of cod--which he finally accepted as a fish which the Professor could hardly censure for ostentation. Next came the no less difficult questions of _entree_ or no _entree_, of joint and bird. "What's in season just now?" said Horace; "let me see"--and glanced out of the window as he spoke, as though in search of some outside suggestion.... "Camels, by Jove!" he suddenly exclaimed. "_Camels_, Mr. Ventimore, sir?" repeated Mrs. Rapkin, in some bewilderment; and then, remembering that he was given to untimely flippancy, she gave a tolerant little cough. "I'll be shot if they _aren't_ camels!" said Horace. "What do _you_ make of 'em, Mrs. Rapkin?" Out of the faint mist which hung over the farther end of the square advanced a procession of tall, dust-coloured animals, with long, delicately poised necks and a mincing gait. Even Mrs. Rapkin could not succeed in making anything of them except camels. "What the deuce does a caravan of camels want in Vincent Square?" said Horace, with a sudden qualm for which he could not account. "Most likely they belong to the Barnum Show, sir," suggested his landlady. "I did hear they were coming to Olympia again this year."