"Maybe there's something wrong with the Tressilvain end of the family.

The Shoshone Securities people manage her investments here--" "The way to do is to wire and find out," grumbled Portlaw, leading the way to the luncheon table as a servant announced that function.
For it was certainly a function with Portlaw; all eating was more or less of a ceremony, and dinner rose to the dignity of a rite.
"I can't imagine what that telegram--" "Forget it!" snapped Portlaw; "do you want to infect my luncheon?
When a man lunches he ought to give his entire mind to it.

Talk about your lost arts!--the art of eating scarcely survives at all.

Find it again and you revive that other lost art of prandial conversation.

Digestion's not possible without conversation.