"Now, Mrs. P., my second cup, and give Mr. Morton his dish of tea. Must be tired, sir--hot day. Jemima, ring--no, go to the stairs and call out 'more buttered toast.' That's the shorter way--promptitude is my rule in life, Mr. Morton. Pray-hum, hum--have you ever, by chance, studied the biography of the great Napoleon Buonaparte?" Mr. Plimmins gulped down his tea, and kicked Philip under the table. Philip looked fiercely at the foreman, and replied, sullenly, "No, sir." "That's a pity. Napoleon Buonaparte was a very great man,--very! You have seen his cast?--there it is, on the dumb waiter! Look at it! see a likeness, eh?" "Likeness, sir? I never saw Napoleon Buonaparte." "Never saw him! No, just look round the room. Who does that bust put you in mind of? who does it resemble?" Here Mr. Plaskwith rose, and placed himself in an attitude; his hand in his waistcoat, and his face pensively inclined towards the tea-table. "Now fancy me at St. Helena; this table is the ocean. Now, then, who is that cast like, Mr. Philip Morton?" "I suppose, sir, it is like you!" "Ah, that it is! strikes every one! Does it not, Mrs. P., does it not? And when you have known me longer, you will find a moral similitude--a moral, sir! Straightforward--short--to the point--bold--determined!" "Bless me, Mr. P.!" said Mrs. Plaskwith, very querulously, "do make haste with your tea; the young gentleman, I suppose, wants to go home, and the coach passes in a quarter of an hour." "Have you seen Kean in Richard the Third, Mr. Morton?" asked Mr. Plimmins. "I have never seen a play." "Never seen a play! How very odd!" "Not at all odd, Mr. Plimmins," said the stationer. "Mr. Morton has known troubles--so hand him the hot toast." Silent and morose, but rather disdainful than sad, Philip listened to the babble round him, and observed the ungenial characters with which he was to associate. He cared not to please (that, alas! had never been especially his study); it was enough for him if he could see, stretching to his mind's eye beyond the walls of that dull room, the long vistas into fairer fortune. At sixteen, what sorrow can freeze the Hope, or what prophetic fear whisper, "Fool!" to the Ambition? He would bear back into ease and prosperity, if not into affluence and station, the dear ones left at home. From the eminence of five shillings a week, he looked over the Promised Land. At length, Mr. Plaskwith, pulling out his watch, said, "Just in time to catch the coach; make your bow and be off-smart's the word!" Philip rose, took up his hat, made a stiff bow that included the whole group, and vanished with his host. Mrs. Plaskwith breathed more easily when he was gone. "I never seed a more odd, fierce, ill-bred-looking young man! I declare I am quite afraid of him. What an eye he has!" "Uncommonly dark; what I may say gipsy-like," said Mr. Plimmins.