The breakfast-table, placed close to a cheerful fire, was spread with every luxury of that meal. A small spirit lamp burned under a dish of most appetizing cutlets, in the midst of various kinds of bread, and different sorts of preserves. The grateful odor of mocha mingled with the purer perfume of fresh flowers, which, although in midwinter, were never wanting at Mr. Clowes's breakfast-table, while in the centre rose a splendid pineapple, the first of the season, duly offered by the gardener to the grand vizier of Davenport Dunn. “I can promise you a better breakfast than _he_ would have given you,” said Clowes, as he motioned his guest to a seat, while he significantly jerked his thumb towards Dunn's study. “_He_ takes tea and dry toast, and he quite forgets to order anything else. He has some crank or other about beginning the day with a light meal; quite a mistake,--don't you think so?” “This is not the most favorable moment to make me a convert to that opinion,” said Conway, laughing. “I must confess I incline to _your_ side of the controversy.” “There are herrings there,” said Clowes, “and a spatchcock coming. You see,” continued he, returning to the discussion, “he overworks--he does too much--taxes his powers beyond their strength--beyond any man's strength;” and here Mr. Clowes threw himself back in his chair, and looked pompously before him, as though to say, Even Clowes would n't have constitution for what _he_ does.--“A man must have his natural rest, sir, and his natural support;” and in evidence of the last, he re-helped himself to the Strasburg pâté. “Your words are wisdom, and washed down with such Bordeaux I 'd like to see who 'd gainsay them,” said Conway, with a droll twinkle of the eye. “Better coffee, that, I fancy, than you got in the Crimea,” said Clowes, pointing to the coffee-pot. “I suspect Lord Raglan himself never saw such a breakfast as this. May I ask if it be your every-day meal?” “We change slightly with the seasons. Oysters and Sauterne suit spring; and then, when summer sets in, we lean towards the subacid fruits and claret-cup. Dash your pineapple with a little rum,--it's very old, and quite a liqueur.” “This must be a very jolly life of yours,” said Conway, as he lighted his cigarette and placed his feet on the fender. “You 'd prefer it to the trenches or the rifle-pits, I suspect,” said Clowes, laughing, “and small blame to you. It was out there you lost your arm, I suppose?” Conway nodded, and puffed on in silence. [Illustration: 270] “A bad business,--a bad business we 're making of it all! The Crimea was a mistake; we should have marched direct to Moscow,--Moscow or St Petersburg,--I don't care which.” “Nor should I, if we could get there,” said Conway, quietly.