THE WHITE ECLAIR
I, Sibley Sibley, Esquire, M. C., of New York City, in the County of Kings, gentleman, temporarily residing in Washington, D. C., tell this little tale as a specimen of the gentle art of foozling in high life.
Once upon a time there was a Greek Ambassador, who dwelt on K street, and was possessed of fine, fruity wines and an ambition. The wines he kept in cellars, which, as he was French by education, he delighted to call "caves," and we "mammoth caves," by reason of their area of square miles and because the surroundings were good for consumption; and his ambition was, briefly, to do away with the duty upon currants. Wherefore I dined there often, for in those days I was of the Ways and Means Committee, and a great Member in the sight of the Lord.
Also, it should here be noted that the name of the Ambassador was Papagyros, and that he was familiarly called Papa.
We sat, contented, warm, replete and stagsome, four of us men, by the Ambassador's log fire. There were Papa, present ex officio, and Prince Blatapski, the sculptor, who had recently made himself famous by modeling Mrs. Wilton Wichins's left foot for the Corcoran, and there were Jesse Ware, Washington's chief Devil Among the Lasses, and myself (alas! among the devils). We sat, as I have said before, stagsome, and smoked the cigarettes of Stamboul and sipped the wine of Patras.
"It is a well-known fact," observed the Ambassador, placidly, "that no one can kiss Lady Bunston."
That was the trouble about Papa. He was always enunciating those great truths of experimental psychology when you were expecting him to ask you if you would have another, just to keep him company; and they upset one's nerves.
But Ware merely nodded.
"Yes," said Ware. "Everyone with a good general education knows that."
"Especially,: said I, thoughtlessly, "when Sir Wilfrid Bunston is looking."
The Ambassador deliberately thrust his hand into the Latakia and, taking his hookah, filled the bowl and lit. Then he said, "Do you think that—perhaps—when Sir Wilfrid is not looking??
"Isn't it stuffy in this room—just a trifle—don't you think?" I said. "Suppose we open that one. So much. Well, if you must have it, I did think that, perhaps, when Sir Wilfrid is not looking. But there! you know, Your Excellency, that I have not been long in Washington, and I live in Brooklyn."
Blatapski laughed a mighty, Polish laugh and drew something with his fork on the cloth. I looked at it, and it resembled the foot of Mrs. Wilton Wichins. Blatapski is very odd. He is a man of but one or two ideas.
The Ambassador puffed at his hookah reflectively. "How long do you think it would take?" said he at last. "A month—a year—or a decade? It must be while Sir Wilfrid is still on the turf." He spoke English very idiomatically for a Greek.
Then I knew he was going to bet, and I smiled at him with what I
