The mysterious sauce with which this great gastronome flavoured his oysters was now prepared, while I, it must be confessed, had consumed my portion, and John Turner relapsed into silence. I watched him as he ate delicately, slowly, with a queer refinement. Many are ready to talk of some crafts under the name of art, which must now, forsooth, be spelt with a capital letter--why, I know no more than the artists. John Turner had his Art, and now exercised it. I always noticed that during the earlier and more piquant courses of a meal he was cynical and apt to give speech on matters of human meanness and vanity not unknown to many who are silent about them. Later on, when the dishes became more succulent, so would his views of life sweeten and acquire a mellower flavour. His round face now began to beam more pleasantly at me across the well-served table, like a rich autumn moon rising over a fat land. "Pity it is," he said, as he placed a lamb cutlet on my plate, "that you and your father cannot agree." "Pity that the guv'nor is so unreasonable," I answered. "I do not suppose there is any question of reason on either side," rejoined my companion, with a laugh. "But I think you might make a little more allowance. You must remember that we old fellows are not so wise and experienced as our youngers and betters. I know he is a hot-blooded old reprobate--that father of yours. I thumped him at Eton for it half a century ago. And you're a worthy son to him, I make no doubt--you have his great chin. But you are all he has, Dick--don't forget that now and remember it too late. Have another cutlet?" "Thanks." "Gad! I'd give five hundred a year for your appetite and digestion. Think of that old man, my boy, down in Norfolk at this time of year, with nobody to swear at but the servants. Norfolk is just endurable in October, when game and 'longshore herrings are in. But now--with lamb getting muttony--poor old chap!" "Well," I answered, "he could not eat me if I was at home. But I'll go back in the autumn. I generally make it up before the First." "What a beautiful thing is filial love," murmured my companion, with a stout sigh, as he turned his attention to the matter of importance on the plate before him; and indeed--with its handicap of fifty years--I think his appetite put my hearty craving for food to shame. We talked of other things for a while--of matters connected with the gay town in which we found ourselves. We discussed the merits of the wine before us, and it was not until later in the course of the repast that John Turner again reverted to my affairs. If these portions of our talk alone are reported, the reader must kindly remember that they are at all events relevant to the subject, however unworthy, of this narrative. "So," said my stout companion when the coffee was served, "you are tricking the father so that you may make love to the daughter?"