IF LUNCHEON had seemed extravagant, dinner at Cray’s Folly proved to be a veritable Roman banquet. To associate ideas of selfishness with Miss Beverley was hateful, but the more I learned of the luxurious life of this queer household hidden away in the Surrey Hills the less I wondered at any one’s consenting to share such exile. I had hitherto counted an American freak dinner, organized by a lucky plunger and held at the Café de Paris, as the last word in extravagant feasting. But I learned now that what was caviare in Monte Carlo was ordinary fare at Cray’s Folly.
Colonel Menendez was an epicure with an endless purse. The excellence of one of the courses upon which I had commented led to a curious incident.
“You approve of the efforts of my chef?” said the Colonel.
“He is worthy of his employer,” I replied.
Colonel Menendez bowed in his cavalierly fashion and Madame de Stämer positively beamed upon me.
“You shall speak for him,” said the Spaniard. “He was with me in Cuba, but has no reputation in London. There are hotels that would snap him up.”
I looked at the speaker in surprise.
“Surely he is not leaving you?” I asked.
The Colonel exhibited a momentary embarrassment.
