“Since when, sir?” said the young advocate, with a flame in his eyes. “Since we have learned the trick of calling our mean ambitions by high-sounding names?” 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 in the heavens, without form and without meaning to the human eyes.” “Or it ees like a young wine, sare; it must be allowed time to mature,” said Jools. “It is the worst feature, Jools,” said the solicitor, “of this claret of yours, that it always unlocks the door for these pleasantries. And this British skull of mine is so packed with business, that with our shopkeeping instinct of transacting a little of it whenever and wherever we can, before we fall upon the latest theories in regard to the composition of matter, with every reluctance, I shall ask you and your distinguished compatriot to withdraw for the space of one hour.” “Personally,” said Northcote, “I believe the universe is not made up of matter at all.” “In other words, sir,” said the chef, “matter is--” “I ask your pardon, my friends,” said the solicitor; “but with true Britannic effrontery, this business of mine even seeks to take precedence of the mystery of the universe.” “There is no such thing as the universe,” said Northcote, draining his glass with great decision. “The whole of it is contained within ourselves.” “Peace, peace!” said the solicitor. “We will resume our speculations, with the permission of our good friends, in the space of one hour.”