in reverential
ecstasy: once to the point of letting the potatoes I was handing round
roll off the dish on to the floor. I never was so rapt again; for
Cherubino picking up the potatoes and following my frightened exit,
broke them over my head on the landing, by way of chastisement. The best
barbers do not use hot mealy potatoes for the hair.

When the last guest had departed, Paragot mounted to his attic, Mrs.
Housekeeper and Cherubino went their several ways--each went several
ways, I think, for they had unchecked command during the evening over
the whisky and beer barrels--and I, dragging a bundle of bedclothes from
beneath the sofa, went to bed amid the fumes of tripe, gas, tobacco,
alcohol and humanity, and slept the sleep of perfect happiness.

In the morning, at about eleven, I rose and prepared breakfast for
Paragot and myself, which we ate together in his room. For a couple of
hours he instructed me in what he was pleased to call the humanities.
Then he sent me out into the street for air and exercise, with
instructions to walk to Hyde Park, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's
Cathedral, Whiteley's--he always had a fresh objective for me--and to
bring him back my views thereon and an account of what I had noticed on
the way. When I came home I delivered myself into the hands of Mrs.
Housekeeper and turned scullion again. The plates, glasses, knives and
forks of the previous evening's orgy were washed and cleaned, the room
swept and aired, and a meal cooked for Mrs. Housekeeper and myself which
we ate at a corner of the long table. Paragot himself dined out.

On Sunday evenings the Club was shut, and as Mrs. Housekeeper did not
make her appearance on the Sabbath, the remains of Saturday night's
supper stayed on the table till Monday afternoon. Imagine remains of
tripe thirty six hours old!

I mention this, not because it is of any great interest, but because it
exhibits a certain side of Paragot's character. In those early days I
was not critical. I lived in a maze of delight. Paragot was the Wonder
of the Earth, my bedroom a palace chamber, and the abominable Sunday
night smell pervaded my senses like the perfumes of all the Arabies.

"My son," said Paragot one morning, in the middle of a French
lesson--from the first he was bent on my learning the language--"My son,
I wonder whether you are going to turn out a young Caliban, and after I
have shewn you the True Divinity of Things, return to your dam's god
Seteb