Moore, sweetest of bards, sings —

“Oh, there’s nothing half so sweet in life As love’s young dream.”

But he made this assertion in his callow days, before he had learned the value of a good digestion. To a young and fervid youth, love’s young dream is, no doubt, very charming, lovers, as a rule, having a small appetite; but to a man who has seen the world, and drunk deeply of the wine of life, there is nothing half so sweet in the whole of his existence as a good dinner. “A hard heart and a good digestion will make any man happy.” So said Talleyrand, a cynic if you like, but a man who knew the temper of his day and generation. Ovid wrote about the art of love — Brillat Savarin, of the art of dining; yet, I warrant you, the gastronomical treatise of the brilliant Frenchman is more widely read than the passionate songs of the Roman poet. Who does not value as the sweetest in the whole twenty-four the hour when, seated at an artistically-laid table, with delicately-cooked viands, good wines, and pleasant company, all the cares and worries of the day give place to a delightful sense of absolute enjoyment? Dinner with the English people is generally a very dreary affair, and there is a heaviness about the whole thing which communicates itself to the guests, who eat and drink with a solemn persistence, as though they were occupied in fulfilling some sacred rite. But there are men — alas! few and far between — who possess the rare art of giving good dinners — good in the sense of sociality as well as in that of cookery.

Mark Frettlby was one of these rare individuals — he had an innate genius for getting pleasant people together — people, who, so to speak, dovetailed into one another. He had an excellent cook, and his wines were irreproachable, so that Brian, in spite of his worries, was glad that he had accepted the invitation. The bright gleam of the silver, the glitter of glass, and the perfume of flowers, all collected under the subdued crimson glow of a pink-shaded lamp, which hung from the ceiling, could not but give him a pleasurable sensation.

On one side of the dining-room were the French windows opening on to the verandah, and beyond appeared the vivid green of the trees, and the dazzling colours of the flowers, somewhat tempered by the soft hazy glow of the twilight.

Brian had made himself as respectable as possible under the odd circumstances of dining in his riding-dress, and sat next to Madge, contentedly sipping his wine, and listening to the pleasant chatter which was going on around him.

Felix Rolleston was in great spirits, the more so as Mrs Rolleston was at the further end of the table, hidden from his view.

Julia Featherweight sat near Mr. Frettlby, and chatted to him so persistently that he wished she would become possessed of a dumb devil.

Dr. Chinston and Peterson were seated on the other side of the table, and the old colonist, whose name was Valpy, had the post of honour, on Mr. Frettlby’s right hand.

The conversation had turned on to the subject, ever green and fascinating, of politics, and Mr. Rolleston thought it a good opportunity to air his views as to the Government of the Colony, and to show his wife that he really meant to obey her wish, and become a power in the political world.

“By Jove, you know,” he said, with a wave of his hand, as though he were addressing the House; “the country is going to the dogs, and all that sort of thing. What we want is a man like Beaconsfield.”

“Ah! but you can’t pick up a man like that every day,” said Frettlby, who was listening with an amused smile to Rolleston’s disquisitions.

“Rather a good thing, too,” observed Dr. Chinston, dryly.

“Genius would become too common.”

“Well, when I am elected,” said Felix, who had his own views, which modesty forbade him to publish, on the subject of the coming colonial Disraeli, “I probably shall form a party.”

“To advocate what?” asked Peterson, curiously.

“Oh, well, you see,” hesitated Felix, “I haven’t drawn up a programme yet, so can’t say at present.”

“Yes, you can hardly give a performance without a programme,” said the doctor, taking a sip of wine, and then everybody laughed.

“And on what are your political opinions founded?” asked Mr. Frettlby, absently, without looking at Felix.

“Oh, you see, I’ve read the Parliamentary reports and Constitutional history, and — and Vivian Grey,” said Felix, who began to feel himself somewhat at sea.

“The last of which is what the author called it, a lusus naturae,” observed Chinston. “Don’t erect your political schemes on such bubble foundations as are in that novel, for you won’t find a Marquis Carabas out here.”

“Unfortunately, no!” observed Felix, mournfully; “but we may find a Vivian Grey.”

Every one smothered a smile, the allusion was so patent.

“Well, he didn’t succeed in the end,” cried Peterson.

“Of course he didn’t,” retorted Felix, disdainfully; “he made an enemy of a woman, and a man who is such a fool as to do that deserves to fall.”

“You have an excellent opinion of our sex, Mr. Rolleston,” said Madge, with a wicked glance at the wife of that gentleman, who was listening complacently to her husband’s aimless chatter.

“No better than they deserve,” replied Rolleston, gallantly.

“But you have never gone in for politics, Mr. Frettlby?”

“Who? — I— no,” said the host, rousing himself out of the brown study into which he had fallen. “I’m afraid I’m not sufficiently patriotic, and my business did not permit me.”

“And now?”

“Now,” echoed Mr. Frettlby, glancing at his daughter, “I intend to travel.”

“The jolliest thing out,” said Peterson, eagerly. “One never gets tired of seeing the queer things that are in the world.”

“I’ve seen queer enough things in Melbourne in the early days,” said the old colonist, with a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh!” cried Julia, putting her hands up to her ears, “don’t tell me them, for I’m sure they’re naughty.”

“We weren’t saints then,” said old Valpy, with a senile chuckle.

“Ah, then, we haven’t changed much in that respect,” retorted Frettlby, drily.

“You talk of your theatres now,” went on Valpy, with the garrulousness of old age; “why, you haven’t got a dancer like Rosanna.”

Brian started on hearing this name again, and he felt Madge’s cold hand touch his.

“And who was Rosanna?” asked Felix, curiously, looking up.

“A dancer and burlesque actress,” replied Valpy, vivaciously, nodding his old head. “Such a beauty; we were all mad about her — such hair and eyes. You remember her, Frettlby?”

“Yes,” answered the host, in a curiously dry voice.

But before Mr. Valpy had the opportunity to wax more eloquent, Madge rose from the table, and the other ladies followed. The ever polite Felix held the door open for them, and received a bright smile from his wife for, what she considered, his brilliant talk at the dinner table.

Brian sat still, and wondered why Frettlby changed colour on hearing the name — he supposed that the millionaire had been mixed up with the actress, and did not care about being reminded of his early indiscretions — and, after all, who does?
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