no doubt is divine, must forego the rights and trappings of its royalty."
"You must forgive him, Jools," said the solicitor, enjoying the effect upon the waiter of these deep tones. "He is talking prose, although, unlike your immortal compatriot, I am afraid he knows it."
Jools summoned one of another mould to receive the baser order of a thick soup and a cut from the saddle, while he himself, beaming with pleasure and shrugging his shoulders furiously, went forth accompanied by an awe-stricken satellite personally to select one of those royal wines, which lent a touch of romantic grace to the exile of this artist in a foreign country.
Seated on cushions in the cosiest of all imaginable corners, with spotless lawn and bright silver before him, the starving man enveloped his nostrils in the delicious fumes that arose from his plate. These aromatic vapors seemed to pervade his being like some intoxicating hashish, or a pungent but subtle Arabian tobacco. He toyed with the pepper and salt, and crumbled his bread with a devouring eagerness, which he kept in check sufficiently to refuse at first to swallow a spoonful of the magic food, in order that he might obtain this sense of inebriation to the full. His companion, whose perfectly normal and healthy hunger permitted no such refinements as these, had already tasted and enjoyed.
"Excellent soup," he said. "It's got quite a bouquet to it. I'm almost glad I missed my dinner. One of these days I shall do it again."
The satisfaction which in these circumstances
