"Scipio never repeats what he hears at table: I'll say that for him.
And I believe in feeding people up."
The Vicar turned to Major Hymen, who had pushed back his chair and
was staring at the tablecloth from under a puckered brow.
"I fear this has come upon you somewhat suddenly: but my first
thought, as soon as I had convinced myself--"
"Thank you, Vicar. I appreciate that, of course."
"And, after all--when you come to think of it--an event of this
magnitude, happening in your mayoralty--"
"Will they knight him, do you think?" asked Miss Marty.
While the Vicar considered his answer, on top of this interruption
came another--Scipio entering with the omelet. Now the entrance of
the Major's omelet was a daily ritual. It came on a silver dish,
heated by a small silver spirit-lamp, on a tray covered by a spotless
linen cloth. Scipio, its cook and compounder, bore it with
professional pride, supporting the dish on one palm bent backwards,
and held accurately level with his shoulder; whence, by a curious and
quite indescribable turn of the wrist (Scipio was double-jointed),
during which for one fearful tenth of a second they seemed to hang
upside down, he would bring tray, lamp, dish and omelet down with a
sweep, and deposit them accurately in front of the Major's plate, at
the same instant bringing his heels together and standing at
attention for his master's approval.
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