"Let us hope so," said Thorndyke. "The lark is better employed 'at Heaven's gate singing' than garnishing a beefsteak pudding. But you were telling us about your case."
"So I was. Well it's just a matter of—ale or claret? Oh, claret, I know. You despise the good old British John Barleycorn."
"He that drinks beer thinks beer," retorted Thorndyke. "But you were saying that it is just a matter of?"
"A matter of a perverse testator and an ill-drawn will. A peculiarly irritating case, too, because the defective will replaces a perfectly sound one, and the intentions of the testator were—er—were—excellent ale, this. A little heady, perhaps, but sound. Better than your sour French wine, Thorndyke—were—er—were quite obvious. What he evidently desired was—mustard? Better have some mustard. No? Well, well! Even a Frenchman would take mustard. You can have no appreciation of flavor, Thorndyke, if you take your victuals in that crude, unseasoned state. And, talking of flavor, do you suppose that there is really any difference between that of a lark and that of a sparrow?"
Thorndyke smiled grimly. "I should suppose," said he, "that they were indistinguishable; but the question could easily be put to the test of experiment."
"That is true," agreed Marchmont, "and it would really be worth trying, for, as you say,
