"But I don't see the oysters," I rejoined,
innocently. .

"No, but you shall, I trust; they have them
a few doors off— black fins, too. The very
thought of them gives appetite. I saw your
misery last night, Barnes," continued he, while
he ate, " though I had never met you before. I
knew what tortures you were undergoing with
those sorry substitutes for society. Ah! here's
the Worcester! I have your permission about
the oysters. You'll bless me for the hint. Forty,
Ford, only forty, and be sure you pick the
round shell and deep cap ones. But you've done
it before. Go!"

And with this he gave me a smile, so bland,
so captivating, and so confidential, that I cannot
attempt to render it in words.

"Yes, Barnes," he went on, " you and I, last
night, were certainly not in our element. That
vile mixture of pomposity and boyishness — that
fearful melange of the orderly-book and the
practical joke. Well done, Ford! these are well
chosen. Hand them to Mr. Barnes." As he
said this he leaned back in his chair, and
looked like a host doing the honours of a feast.
"Am I not right? are not these luscious? Oh
no, don't take pepper; leave them to restore the
mucous membrane to its condition of freshness,
just as the sea-breeze invigorates and braces the
outer man. When I parted from you last night
I was thinking over what you had said, and I
felt you were right: ' It is a wretched career—
repressing all the energy of the able, and
developing into absurd proportions the puny efforts
of the common-place.' Do you remember using
those words? I'll swear you don't; but I do.
I repeated them over and over, and when I got
home I jotted them down in my diary, with the
word Barnesiana at the head, for I thought, he
who uttered these words has far more in him,
and I said to myself, ' Watkins, don't lose sight
of that man; waste no time, either, in stupid
formalities, but go frankly to him and say — '
Shall we have that delicious bird, eh, Ford?
I must have a little very little cognac
before I engage him. You said Madeira, did you?"

I had not uttered a word.

"Well, Ford, Mr. Barnes is right: Madeira
be it. And they have such Madeira here! Not
know it? You don't say that you never tasted
their Madeira? May I give you this slice of the
breast? Ah, I see! breakfast is not your meal
either. As my poor father used to say, ' Breakfast
is a cover hack; dinner is the strong-boned
hunter.' Fill it up, Ford up to the brim;
Madeira must be a bumper. A German would call
that Zum kissen."

"Very good wine indeed," I said, being the
only words I had uttered for half an hour.

"I am half ashamed to offer you one of these,
Barnes," said he, opening his cigar-case, and
handing it towards me. "A Sybarite of your
stamp is sure to import his own."

"I think I have got something better," I
said, looking, I suppose, rather contemptuously
over the sorry display he exhibited. " These are
Havannahs."

"So they are," said he, smelling them. " Isn't
it Homer who makes two warriors exchange
armour as a pledge of eternal friendship? Let us
imitate the glorious example!" With this he
emptied out the vile trash of his own cigar-case
on the table, and replaced it with my precious
Cubans. " Grand old fellow was Homer, and how
well he understood the majesty of a feast. There
was that geniality about him— Homer might have
been Lord Mayor of London; and when one
only thinks of the fellows who have tried to
render him in English— cold, ascetic creatures—
hypochondriac like Cowper, irritable like
Pope, or rigidly doctrinaire like Gladstone.
What a mess they do make of it! Dryden
might have done it, glorious John! who had the
true epic spirit, with the heart of a bon-vivant!
John would have got drunk over the battles, and
made grand things of them!"

I was too much grieved about my cigars to
feel any interest in this rhapsody.

"No Whig, still less a Radical, could translate
Homer; there must be ingrained in a man's
nature the veritable spirit of a Tory; a king-
revering, port-loving Tory! You are a Tory,
Barnes, or at least a Conservative; and a
Conservative is to a Tory what a cutlet is to a mutton-
chop."

"I am neither a mutton-chop nor a cutlet,
sir," said I, gravely.

"You are surely not the uncooked thing they
call a Radical? Am I unreasonable if I ask for
half a glass more of that delicious Madeira?
There, positively no more. It's your own fault
if I commit an excess. Your talk, Barnes, has
carried me away; so that to keep up with you,
I have had to shake out all my canvas, royals,
and studding-sails. You are fidgety— some
appointment, some rendezvous, eh? Why
ceremonious with me? Why not say frankly, Watkins,
old fellow, I must leave you. But let us
meet here at seven. There's just enough of
that Madeira for a glass after the soup, and
then Cliquot— nothing but Cliquot till the
dessert. Hurried, are you? Well, leave the
ordering of the dinner to me. Old Bob Surtees
used to say that for the double event, meaning
both dinner and wine, he'd back me against
Europe."

I don't know what I muttered in answer to
this speech. I believe I grinned, and tried to
smile. I know that inwardly I cursed the man,
but I hurried away out of the room, almost
afraid that my anger might bring on a fit, while
the wretch opened my newspaper, and, with a
leg on each side of the fire, stretched himself
out to read.

"There's a mid-day mail packet for Holyhead,
isn't there, Ford?" I whispered to the waiter.

"At one forty, sir, it leaves Kingstown."

"Pack up my things with all speed, then, and
say nothing whatever about my departure in the
house, and particularly to the gentleman who
breakfasted here, and here's a sovereign for
you. If I get away quietly, you shall have
another."

Ford earned his money; and, at two o'clock,