Monsieur Benoit, who was then the chef de cuisine at the Etheric Explorers Club, had, in an uncharacteristic mood of economy, merged the first two courses of our dinner into a quite exceptional bouillabaisse. Considering that only five members were present in the club on that Friday evening - a number further diminished when McCavour retired to his room upstairs long before dinner was served - I reminded myself to congratulate Benoit on his efforts. Even at the best of times these French chefs can be volatile artists, and I could well imagine his vexation at putting such effort into a dish for only four.
  “Damn fine soup, eh Lichfield?” Cuthbertson asked me. “Bit like Mulligatawny,” he added, and seemed to roll this idea about his mind for a time. “Only fishier,” he decided.
  As one of those leathery, heavily moustachioed Anglo-Indians, it still amazed me that Cuthbertson should end up with us, rather than at Boodle’s, or the Savage Club, but I gather he met up with some Theosophists in the East, or some similar creatures, so I suppose that explains it. Whatever the case, I sincerely prayed that Benoit would never hear of his bouillabaisse having been described in the language that Cuthbertson had just used. Suppressing a shudder at the thought of our chef giving his notice, relegating us to the era of Lancashire hotpot as prepared by the club manservant, Billingsly, I humphed non-committally. It was only because there were too few of us to fill the dining room that night that we were forced to endure each other’s company at all. But it seemed inhospitable to scatter ourselves at separate tables.
  “I say,” Milford piped up, “has anyone else ever tried swell-fish?”
  “What?” Cuthbertson asked, startled from his Mulligatawny reveries.
  “Swell-fish.” Milford repeated. “It’s a fish,” he explained.
  As we waited for him to expand upon his chosen topic, I chewed another portion of rouille-seasoned bread.
  “It swells up,” he continued, “when it’s alarmed. Like a bladder.”
  This image of Milford’s gave us all, I think, pause for reflection. Selkirk, keeping to himself, merely winced at every new contribution to the discussion, unless he was responding to the garlic in the rouille. Cuthbertson set down his spoon.
  “What the devil do you mean? My bladder doesn’t swell up when it’s alarmed!”

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