'When was that?' asked Mr. Cupples.
'On the occasion,' replied Trent, 'of the introduction of the Compulsory Notification of Diseases of Poultry Bill, which ill-fated measure you of course remember. Hullo!' he broke off, as the cab rushed down a side street and swung round a corner into a broad and populous thoroughfare, 'we're there already.' The cab drew up.
'Here we are,' said Trent, as he paid the man, and led Mr. Cupples into a long, panelled room set with many tables and filled with a hum of talk. 'This is the house of fulfilment of craving, this is the bower with the roses around it. I see there are three bookmakers eating pork at my favourite table. We will have that one in the opposite corner.'
He conferred earnestly with a waiter, while Mr. Cupples, in a pleasant meditation, warmed himself before the great fire. 'The wine here,' Trent resumed, as they seated themselves, 'is almost certainly made out of grapes. What shall we drink?'
Mr. Cupples came out of his reverie. 'I think,' he said, 'I will have milk and soda water.'
