een so bad that it must be fed up
at short intervals. You can understand that, perhaps, Miss Castlewood.
It makes the confectioners' fortunes, you know. The ladies once came
only twice to feed, but now they come three times, I am assured by a
young man who knows all about it. And cherry brandy is the mildest form
of tipple."

"Shocking scandal! abominable talk!" cried the Major, who took every
thing at its word. "I have heard all that sort of stuff ever since I was
as high as this table. Waiter, show me this gentleman's bill. Oh well,
oh well! you have not done so very badly. Two squares and a round, with
a jug of Steinberg, and a pint of British stout with your Stilton. If
this is your ante-lunch, what will you do when you come to your real
luncheon? But I must not talk now; you may have it as you please."

"The truth of it is, Miss Castlewood," said the young man, while I
looked with some curiosity at my frizzling bone, with the cover just
whisked off, and drops of its juice (like the rays of a lustre) shaking
with soft inner wealth--"the truth of it is just this, and no more:
we fix our minds and our thoughts, and all the rest of our higher
intelligence, a great deal too much upon our mere food."

"No doubt we do," I was obliged to answer. "It is very sad to think of,
as soon as one has dined. But does that reflection occur, as it should,
at the proper time to be useful--I mean when we are hungry?"

"I fear not; I fear that it is rather praeterite than practical."

"No big words now, my dear fellow," cried the Major. "You have had your
turn; let us have ours. But, Erema, you are eating nothing. Take a knife
and fork, Montague, and help her. The beauty of these things consists
entirely, absolutely, essentially, I may say, in their having the smoke
rushing out of them. A gush of steam like this should follow every turn
of the knife. But there! I am spoiling every bit by talking so."

"Is that any fault of mine?" asked Sir Montague, in a tone which made me
look at him. The voice was not harsh, nor rough, nor unpleasant, yet it
gave me the idea that it could be all three, and worse than all three,
upon occasion. So I looked at him, which I had refrained from doing, to
see whether his face confirmed that idea. To the best of my perception,
it did not. Sir Montague Hockin was rather good-looking, so far as
form and color go, having regular features, and clear blue eyes, very
beautiful teeth, and a golden beard. His ap