My lord had rooms in one of the fine mansions then first beginning to sprout over against the harbour for the accommodation of wealthy sea-bathers. He was dressed--with all the force of the expression as applied to him--for dinner, and received his nephew in a fine withdrawing-room overlooking the bay. He snarled out an ungracious welcome. He was, as ever, wrapped and embalmed in costly linen smelling of amber-seed, and was with all--so it seemed to the nephew--a touch nearer actual comminution than when he had last seen him. To strip him of cartonage and bandages would be, it appeared, to commit him to dust. But the maggot of vanity still found sustenance in the old wood of his brain. “I am honoured,” he said, “that you give my table the preference over a tavern ordinary. Have you learned to equip yourself with a palate in these months?” “At least I’ll promise to do justice to your fare, sir.” “Will you? You shall be made Lord Chancellor if you do. No, no, Ned! To know beef from matton is the measure of your gastranamy. Ain’t you hungry, now?” “Ravenous, sir.” “_Il n’y en a pas de doute_. You dress like a chairman (I’m your humble debtor, egad! that you’ve recommitted the rags you landed in to the dunghill), and you’ll eat like one. A gentleman’s never hungry. He appraises his viands, sir. ’Tis for flunkeys to devour. One must not yield oneself to a condition of emptiness. That implies a dozen of little disadvantages that are inimical to _bon-ton_. But you know me hopeless of ever convincing you in these matters.” He rose with a slight yawn, and walking to the window, looked out into the darkening evening. The old limbs might have creaked but for their perpetual lubrications. Not an inquiry as to the course of his travels did he address to his undesirable heir. It was more than enough for him that he had returned at all. “If not that you have discovered a palate,” said he, with a sour grin, “then I suppose I am to attribute this visit to your high sense of duty.” A carriage drew up on the stones below as he spoke. “_Enfin_! _mon cher--mon aimable chevalier_!” he muttered to himself with relief. “You have company, sir?” said Ned. “You can stop for all that,” said the uncle tartly. “Madame, as you have seen, knows how to take her entertainment of a monkey.” Madame was ushered in as he spoke. Ned’s only wonder, upon identifying her as the lady of the curricle, was over the fact of her separate lodging. He had expected to find her in my lord’s suite. She came into the candle-light, an amazing figure of elegance, rouged, plastered, and befeathered, but even surprisingly decorous in attire. She wore long mittens on her arms, the upper exposed inches of which flickered with a curious muscularity when she fanned herself. “So,” she said, making exaggerated play with her eyes over the rim of the toy, “we shall have the fatted calf to dinner. And did you find the husks of democracy to your liking, sir?” “I found them tough,” said Ned.