Arabella

It was at about this moment that that erratic young sprig of fashion, Lord Fleetwood, fixed his friend, and host, Mr Beaumaris, with a laughing eye, and demanded in a rallying tone: ‘Well! You promise me a rare day with the hounds tomorrow – by the by, where do we meet? – but what – what , Robert, do you offer me for my entertainment this evening?’

‘My cook,’ said Mr Beaumaris, ‘is generally thought to be an artist in his own line. A Frenchman: I think you will like his way of dressing a Davenport chicken, while some trick he has of flavouring a Benton sauce –’

‘What, did you send Alphonse down, then, from London?’ interrupted Lord Fleetwood, momentarily diverted.

‘Alphonse?’ repeated Mr Beaumaris, his finely chiselled brows lifting a little. ‘Oh, no! this is another. I don’t think I know his name. But I like his way with fish.’