The great archæologist was ordering dinner for himself and a guest with much thought and care. _Crême d'asperge à la Reine_ in his neat writing, the letters distinct from one another--almost like an inscription in Uncial Greek character, one might have fancied. _Turbot à l'Amiral_ promised well; the plump, powerful fingers wrote it down. _Poulardes du Mans rôties_ with _petits pois à la Française_ with a _salade Niçoise_ to follow; that would be excellent! Then just a little _suprème de pêches, à la Montreuil_, which is quite the best kind of _suprème_, then some _Parmesan_ before the coffee. "Quite a simple dinner, Painter," he said to the steward of the room,--the famous "small dining-room" with its alcoves and discreet corners,--"simple but good. Of course you will tell Maurice that it is for _me_. I want him to do quite his best. If you will send this list off to the kitchens with a message, we will go into the wines together." They went carefully into the wines. "Remember that we shall want the large liqueur glasses," he said, "with the Tuileries brandy. In fact, I think I'll take a little now, as an _apéritif_." The man bowed confidentially and went away. He returned with a long bottle of curious shape with an imperial crown blown in the glass. It was some of the famous brandy which had been lately found bricked up in a cellar close to the _Place Carrousel_, and was worth its weight in gold. On the tray stood one of the curious liqueur glasses lately introduced into the club by Sir Robert. It was the shape of a port-wine glass, but enormously large, capable of holding a pint or more, and made of glass as thin as tissue paper and fragile as straw. The steward poured a very little of the brandy into the great glass and twirled it round rapidly by the stem. This was the most epicurean device for bringing out the bouquet of the liqueur. Llwellyn sipped the precious liquid with an air of the most intense enjoyment. His face glowed with enthusiasm. "Wonderful, wonderful!" he said in a hushed voice. "There, take it away and bring me an olive. Then I will go down-stairs and wait for my friend in the smoking-room. You will serve the soup at five minutes past eight." He got up from the table and moved silently over the heavy carpet to the door. It was about seven o'clock. At eight Constantine Schuabe was coming to the Sheridan Club to dine. Sir Robert sat in the smoking-room with a tiny cigarette of South American tobacco, wrapped in maize leaf and tied round the centre with a tiny cord of green silk. His face expressed nothing but the most absolute repose. His correspondence with life was at that moment as complete as the most perfect health and discriminating luxury could make it. He stretched out his feet to the blaze and idly watched the reflection in the points of his shining boots.