I must get
your cook to give me the receipt."
"Ah, my boy," says CHALMERS, "you'll find there's nothing like a stew
out shooting."
"Of course," you say, "nothing can beat it, if you've got a nice room
to eat it in, and aren't pressed for time; but, if you've got no end
of ground to cover, and not much time to do it in, I can always manage
to do myself on a scrap of anything handy. Thanks, I don't mind if I
do have a chunk of cake, and a whitewash of sherry."
Thus you have fetched a compass--I fancy the phrase is correct--and
have wiped out the memory of your indiscretion. Of course the thing
may happen the other way round. You may have expressed a preference
for solid lunches, only to find yourself set down on a tuft of grass,
with a beef sandwich and a digestive biscuit. In that case you can
begin by declaring your delight in an open-air meal, go on to admire
the scenery, and end by expressing a certain amount of judicious
contempt for the Sybarite who cannot tear himself away from effeminate
luxuries, and the trick's done.
But this subject is so great, and has so many varieties, that we must
recur to it in our next.
* * * * *
[Illustration: IN THE RUE DE LA PAIX.
_Hairdresser_. "SAY THEN, SARE ZAT YOU ARE RASE--SHAVE,--IS IT THAT I
SHALL CUT YOU OFF YOUR 'AIR?"
_Mr. Brown_ (_an old-fashioned Englishman, on his first Visit
to Paris--startled_). "HEY! WHAT! CUT MY HAIR OFF! NONG,
MOSSOO--COMPRENNY?--NONG! DO YOU THINK I WANT TO LOOK LIKE ONE OF YOUR
FRENCH POODLES?"]
* * * * *
TO OUR GUERNSEY CORRESPONDENTS.
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