Montague could understand how this was possible.
Some one, for instance, had worked hard over the ordering
of the lunch—to secure the maximum of explosive
effect. It began with ice-cream, moulded in fancy
shapes and then buried in white of egg and baked brown.
Then there was a turtle soup, thick and green and
greasy; and then—horror of horrors—a
great steaming plum-pudding. It was served in
a strange phenomenon of a platter, with six long, silver
legs; and the waiter set it in front of Robbie Walling
and lifted the cover with a sweeping gesture—and
then removed it and served it himself. Montague
had about made up his mind that this was the end,
and begun to fill up on bread-and-butter, when there
appeared cold asparagus, served in individual silver
holders resembling andirons. Then—appetite
now being sufficiently whetted—there came
quail, in piping hot little casseroles—;
and then half a grape-fruit set in a block of ice
and filled with wine; and then little squab ducklings,
bursting fat, and an artichoke; and then a cafe parfait;
and then—as if to crown the audacity—huge
thick slices of roast beef! Montague had given
up long ago—he could keep no track of the
deluge of food which poured forth. And between
all the courses there were wines of precious brands,
tumbled helter-skelter,—sherry and port,
champagne and claret and liqueur. Montague watched
poor “Baby” de Mille out of the corner
of his eye, and pitied her; for it was evident that
she could not resist the impulse to eat whatever was
put before her, and she was visibly suffering.
He wondered whether he might not manage to divert
her by conversation, but he lacked the courage to
make the attempt.
The meal was over at four o’clock. By that
time most of the other parties were far on their way
to New York, and the inn was deserted. They possessed
themselves of their belongings, and one by one their
cars whirled away toward “Black Forest.”
Montague had been told that it was a “shooting-lodge.”
He had a vision of some kind of a rustic shack, and
wondered dimly how so many people would be stowed
away. When they turned off the main road, and
his brother remarked, “Here we are,” he
was surprised to see a rather large building of granite,
with an archway spanning the road. He was still
more surprised when they whizzed through and went
on.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To ‘Black Forest,’” said
Oliver.
“And what was that we passed?”
“That was the gate-keeper’s lodge,”
was Oliver’s reply.
