No wonder we are anxious that nothing should happen to make him change his mind. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. We were two people with a craving. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. The perfume was the only one she ever used. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. My reception at West Kensington you know of.
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