It's a novel idea, I admit. No wonder Vee gasps a little. "Why not?" says I. "Course it ain't reg'lar, but if Mr. Battou wants to do some expert coachin', I expect you and Bertha could use it." "Do, Leon," urges Madame Battou. "Lamb, is it? Oh, he is wonderful with lamb." She hadn't overstated the case, either. Inside of two minutes he has his coat off, a bath towel draped over his fancy vest, and has sent Bertha skirmishin' down the avenue for garlic, cloves, parsley, carrots, and a few other things that had been overlooked, it seems. Well, we stands grouped around the kitchenette door for a while, watchin' him resuscitate that pale-lookin' leg of lamb, jab things into it, pour stuff over it, and mesmerize the gas oven into doin' its full duty. Once he gets started, he ain't satisfied with simply turnin' out the roast. He takes some string-beans and cuts 'em into shoelaces; he carves rosettes out of beets and carrots; he produces a swell salad out of nothing at all; and with a little flour and whipped cream he throws together some kind of puffy dessert that looked like it would melt in your mouth. And by seven-thirty we was sittin' down to a meal such as you don't meet up with outside of some of them Fifth Avenue joints where you have to own a head waiter before they let you in. "Whisper, Professor," says I, "did you work a spell on it, or what?" "Ah-h-h!" says Battou, chucklin' and rubbin' his hands together. "It is cooked _a la Paysan_, after the manner of Peronne, and with it is the sauce chateau." "That isn't mere cookery," says Vee; "that's art." It was quite a cheery evenin'. And after the Battous had gone, Vee and I asked each other, almost in chorus: "Do you suppose he'd do it again?" "He will if I'm any persuader," says I. "Wouldn't it be great to spring something like that on Mr. Robert?" And while I'm shavin' next mornin' I connect with the big idea. Do you ever get 'em that way? It cost me a nick under the ear, but I didn't care. While I'm usin' the alum stick I sketches out the scheme for Vee. "But, Torchy!" says she. "Do you think he would--really?" Before I can answer there's a ring at the door, and here is M. Leon Battou. "The agent once more!" says he, producin' a paper. "In three days, it says. But you have found me the wall-painting, yes?" "Professor," says I, "I hate to say it, but there's nothin' doing in the free-hand fresco line--absolutely." He slumps into a chair, and that pitiful, hunted look settles in his eyes. "Then--then we must go," says he. "Listen, Professor," says I, pattin' him soothin' on the shoulder. "Why not can this art stuff, that nobody wants, and switch to somethin' you're a wizard at?" "You--you mean," says he, "that I should--should turn chef? I--Leon Battou--in a big noisy hotel kitchen? Oh, but I could not. No, I could not!" "Professor," says I, "the only person in this town that I know of who's nutty enough to want to hire a wall decorator reg'lar is me!"