Then I chipped in with, "Very well, Ollie; the members of this household are vegetarians, for the time being. All of us vegetarians, including the dog, so please govern yourself accordingly." Ollie smiled in a broad Hungarian manner and whispered that vegetarianisms was where she lived. She confided to us that she could cook vegetables so artistically that the palate would believe them to be _filet mignon_, with champagne sauce. Then she shook the rolling pin at a picture of friend wife's grandfather, and started in to fool the Beef Trust and put all the butchers out of business. Dinner time came and we were all expectancy. The first course was potato soup. Filling but not fascinating. The second course was potato chips, which we nibbled slightly while we looked eagerly at the butler's pantry. The next course was French fried potatoes with some shoestring potatoes on the side, and I began to get nervous. This was followed by a dish of German fried potatoes, some hash-browned potatoes and some potato _saute_, whereupon my appetite got up and left the room. The next course was plain boiled potatoes with the jackets on, and baked potatoes with the jackets open at the throat, and then some roasted potatoes with Bolero jackets. I was beginning to see that a man must have in his veins the blood of martyrs and of heroes to be a vegetarian and at the same time I could feel myself fixing my fingers to choke Ollie. The next course was a large plate of potato salad, and then I fainted. When I got back Ollie was standing near the table with a sweet smile on each side of her face, waiting for the applause of those present. "Have you anything else?" I inquired hungrily. "Oh, yes!" said Ollie. "I have some potato pudding for dessert." When I got through swearing Ollie was under the stove, my wife was under the table, the dog was under the bed, and I was under the influence of liquor. I'm cured. After this my digestive tract will have to fight a sirloin steak every time I get hungry. Besides, I don't want to live as long as Methuselah. If I did I'd have to learn to tango some time in the 875 years to come--then I'd be just the same as everybody else in the world. Can you get a flash of Methuselah at the age of 64 taking Tango lessons from Baldy Sloane up at Weisenfeffer's pedal parlors? And then having to survive for 850 years with the dance bug in his dome! Close the door, Delia; there's a draft. When Peaches recovered from the shock of my outburst over the potato pudding she said the only way I could square myself was to take her to the very latest up-to-datest hotel in New York for dinner. That is some task if you live up town, believe me, because they open new hotels in New York now the same as they open oysters--by the dozen. However, after stuffing my pockets with all my earthly possessions, we hiked forth and steered for the Builtfast--the very latest thing in expensive beaneries.