I thought the remark rather delicious, as also his other remark when one
day in a curiosity-shop we were looking at another chair, which the
dealer declared to be Norman. My friend seated himself in it very
gravely, and after softly moving about from side to side, testing it, it
would appear, by the sensation it imparted to the sitting portion of his
limbs, he solemnly decided: 'I don't think the _flavour_ of this chair
is Norman!'

I thought of this Pre-Raphaelite brother as the Sphinx and I were seated
a few evenings ago at our usual little dinner, in our usual little
sheltered corner, on the Lover's Gallery of one of the great London
restaurants. The Sphinx says that there is only one place in Europe
where one can really dine, but as it is impossible to be always within
reasonable train service of that Montsalvat of cookery, she consents to
eat with me--she cannot call it dine--at the restaurant of which I
speak. I being very simple-minded, untravelled, and unlanguaged, think
it, in my Cockney heart, a very fine place indeed, with its white marble
pillars surrounding the spacious peristyle, and flashing with a thousand
brilliant lights and colours; with its stately cooks, clothed in white
samite, mystic, wonderful, ranged behind a great altar loaded with big
silver dishes, and the sacred musicians of the temple ranged behind
them--while in and out go the waiters, clothed in white and black,
waiters so good and kind that I am compelled to think of Elijah being
waited on by angels.

They have such an eye for a romance, too, and really take it personally
to heart if it should befall that our little table is usurped by others
that know not love. I like them, too, because they really seem to have
an eye for the strange beauty and charm of the Sphinx, quite an