The solicitor filled up the glasses of Northcote and the chef.
"You speak well, my friends," he said, with his richest chuckle; "although myself being a middle-class Englishman, I am sorry to say your discourse is over my head. But if it is to be my privilege to maintain the talk upon this extremely high level, it will cost me, Jools—"
"It will cost him, Jools," interrupted Northcote, with a truculent glance at the waiter.
"It will cost me, Jools," said the solicitor, with an imperturbable smile, "an extra quart at least of your Château Margaux."
At the moment this order fell on deaf ears, for the lips of Jools were trembling with speech like those of Socrates.
"We will give you our Honoré de Balzac, sare," he said, with a heavy sigh, "ef you will part wiz your Shikspeare."
"Also our Voltaire," said the chef, with a leer at his melancholy compatriot, "if they will part with their Shakespeare."
"Your Honoré Balzac is only just coming into his own," said Northcote, with immense solemnity.
"That is to say, sir," said the chef, "a reputation must be established at least a hundred years in the arts before the world can be decorated with the radiance that proceeds from the enormous fire it holds in its bowels."
"True, monsieur," said Northcote. "It is like a new-born planet. It has to be allowed to cool a little before it can assume a shape, and the wonderful vegetation begins to appear upon it. It cannot be approached at first; it is a mere ball of fire
