A Damsel in Distress

"If you ever go," said Geoffrey, earnestly, "don't fail to lunch at

the Hotel Côte d'Azur. They give you the most amazing selection of

hors d'oeuvres you ever saw. Crayfish as big as baby lobsters! And

there's a fish--I've forgotten it's name, it'll come back to

me--that's just like the Florida pompano. Be careful to have it

broiled, not fried. Otherwise you lose the flavour. Tell the

waiter you must have it broiled, with melted butter and a little

parsley and some plain boiled potatoes. It's really astonishing.

It's best to stick to fish on the Continent. People can say what

they like, but I maintain that the French don't really understand

steaks or any sort of red meat. The veal isn't bad, though I prefer

our way of serving it. Of course, what the French are real geniuses

at is the omelet. I remember, when we put in at Toulon for coal, I

went ashore for a stroll, and had the most delicious omelet with

chicken livers beautifully cooked, at quite a small, unpretentious

place near the harbour. I shall always remember it."

The mourner returned, bearing a laden tray, from which she removed

the funeral bakemeats and placed them limply on the table. Geoffrey

shook his head, annoyed.

"I particularly asked for plenty of butter on my toast!" he said.

"I hate buttered toast if there isn't lots of butter. It isn't

worth eating. Get me a couple of pats, will you, and I'll spread it

myself. Do hurry, please, before the toast gets cold. It's no good

if the toast gets cold. They don't understand tea as a meal at

these places," he said to Maud, as the mourner withdrew. "You have

to go to the country to appreciate the real thing. I remember we

lay off Lyme Regis down Devonshire way, for a few days, and I went

and had tea at a farmhouse there. It was quite amazing! Thick

Devonshire cream and home-made jam and cakes of every kind. This

sort of thing here is just a farce. I do wish that woman would

make haste with that butter. It'll be too late in a minute."

Maud sipped her tea in silence. Her heart was like lead within her.

The recurrence of the butter theme as a sort of _leit motif_ in her

companion's conversation was fraying her nerves till she felt she

could endure little more. She cast her mind's eye back over the

horrid months and had a horrid vision of Geoffrey steadily

absorbing butter, day after day, week after week--ever becoming

more and more of a human keg. She shuddered.