The door flew open and the room was filled and shaken with a shout, in the midst of which Basil Grant, smiling and in evening dress, took his seat at the head of the table.
How we ate that dinner I have no idea.

In the common way I am a person particularly prone to enjoy the long luxuriance of the club dinner.

But on this occasion it seemed a hopeless and endless string of courses.
Hors-d'oeuvre sardines seemed as big as herrings, soup seemed a sort of ocean, larks were ducks, ducks were ostriches until that dinner was over.

The cheese course was maddening.

I had often heard of the moon being made of green cheese.