Asphodel on which it fed, in amorous union with what men call a sauce, but
really oil and cream and herbs stirred by a god in a dream; peaches in
purple ichor chastely clad in snow, melting on the palate as the voice of
the divine singer after whom they are named melts in the soul.

It is a pleasant thing--hedonistic? yes; but why live on lentils when
lotus is to your hand? and, really, at Monte Carlo lentils are quite as
expensive--it is a pleasant thing, even for the food-worn wanderer of many
restaurants, to lunch _tête-à-tête_ at the Hôtel de Paris; but for the
young and fresh-hearted to whom it is new, it is enchantment.

"I've often looked at people eating like this and I've often wondered how
it felt," said Septimus.

"But you must have lunched hundreds of times in such places."

"Yes--but by myself. I've never had a--" he paused. "A what?"

"A--a gracious lady," he said, reddening, "to sit opposite me."

"Why not?"

"No one has ever wanted me. It has always puzzled me how men get to know
women and go about with them. I think it must be a gift," he asserted with
the profound gravity of a man who has solved a psychological problem. "Some
fellows have a gift for collecting Toby jugs. Everywhere they go they
discover a Toby jug. I couldn't find one if I tried for a year. It's the
same thing. At Cambridge they used to call me the Owl."

"An owl catches mice, at any rate," said Zora.