Randal took his friend's advice. "Good sauce, isn't it?" he said.

The epicure entered a protest. "Good?" he repeated. "My dear
fellow, it's absolute perfection. I don't like to cast a slur on
English cookery. But think of melted butter, and tell me if
anybody but a foreigner (I don't like foreigners, but I give them
their due) could have produced this white wine sauce? So you
really had no particular motive in going to America?"

"On the contrary, I had a very particular motive. Just remember
what my life used to be when I was in Scotland--and look at my
life now! No Mount Morven; no model farm to look after; no
pleasant Highland neighbors; I can't go to my brother while he is
leading his present life; I have hurt Catherine's feelings; I
have lost dear little Kitty; I am not obliged to earn my living
(more's the pity); I don't care about politics; I have a pleasure
in eating harmless creatures, but no pleasure in shooting them.
What is there left for me to do, but to try change of scene, and
go roaming around the world, a restless creature without an
object in life? Have I done something wrong again? It isn't the
pepper this time--and yet you're looking at me as if I was trying
your temper."

The French side of Mr. Sarrazin's nature had got the better of
him once more. He pointed indignantly to a supreme preparation of
fowl on his friend's plate. "Do I actually see you picking out
your truffles, and putting them on one side?" he asked.

"Well," Randal acknowledged, "I don't care about truffles."