ly interested and during the artful pauses would ask for explanations or continuation:
"And the rascally Englishman?. . . .And what happened next?. . . .Did Mr. John call for help?"
Although the fatal peal of laughter was long in coming, the future collector did not despair, pinning his faith on the fable of the pitcher that went so often to the well that it finally broke.
The calculation was well made. Psychology, as well as Lent, was on his side.
One day, Carnival having passed, the Major gathered his friends about an enormous stuffed fish, a present from the clerk.
Carnival sport had enlivened the hearts of the guests as well as of the host who on that day was pleased with himself and the whole world, as though he had seen the blue-bird.
When the fish was brought in the Major's eyes sparkled; it was well worth all the bottled aperitives and reflected in all faces an epicurean tenderness. Fine fish was the Major's delight, especially when cooked by Gertrude. And for that dinner Gertrude had excelled in a seasoning that transcended all culinary art and soared to the height of the most exquisite poetry. What fish! Vatel could have signed it with the pen of impotence dipped in the ink of envy, said the clerk, well up as a reader of Brillat-Savarin and other authorities on good things to eat.
Between swallows of rich wine the fish was eaten with religious rites. No one dared break the silence of that bromotological beatitude.
Pontes foresaw the opportune moment to play
