“And it is what I know least,” said he; “though Flotow said one day, 'If that rascal De Marsac takes to writing operas, I 'll never compose another. 'But here comes the supper;” and as he spoke my servant entered with a small basket with six bottles in it; two waiters following him, bearing a good-sized tin box, with a charcoal fire beneath. “Well and perfectly done,” exclaimed my guest, as he aided them to place the soup on the table, and to dispose some _hors d'oeuvre_ of anchovies, caviare, ham, and fresh butter on the board. “I am sorry we have no flowers. I love a bouquet A few camellias for color, and some violets for odor. They relieve the grossness of the material enjoyments; they poetize the meal; and if you have no women at table, _mon cher_, be sure to have flowers: not that I object to both together. There, now, is our little bill of fare,--a white soup, a devilled mackerel, some truffles, with butter, and a capon with stewed mushrooms. Oysters there are none, not even those native shrimps they call scampi; but the wine will compensate for much: the wine is Roediger; champagne, with a faint suspicion of dryness. And as he has brought ice, we 'll attack that Bordeaux you spoke of till the other be cool enough for drinking.” As he rattled on thus, it was not very easy for me to assure myself whether I was host or guest; but as I saw that this consideration did not distress _him_, I resolved it should not weigh heavily on me. “I ordered a _compote_ of peaches with maraschino. Go after them and say it has been forgotten.” And now, as he dismissed my servant on this errand, he sat down and served the soup, doing the honors of the board in all form. “You are called--” “Digby is my Christian name,” interrupted I, “and you can call me by it.” “Digby, I drink to your health; and if the wine had been only a little warmer, I 'd say I could not wish to do so in a more generous fluid. No fellow of your age knows how to air his Bordeaux; hot flannels to the caraffe before decanting are all that is necessary, and let your glasses also be slightly warmed. To sip such claret as this, and then turn one's eyes to that champagne yonder in the ice-pail, is like the sensation of a man who in his honeymoon fancies how happy he will be one of these days, _en secondes noces_. Don't you feel a sense of triumphant enjoyment at this moment? Is there not something at your heart that says, 'Hodnig and Oppovich, I despise you! To the regions I soar in you cannot come! To the blue ether I have risen, your very vision cannot reach!' Eh, boy! tell me this.” “No; I don't think you have rightly measured my feelings. On the whole, I rather suspect I bear a very good will to these same people who have enabled me to have these comforts.” “You pretend, then, to what they call gratitude?” “I have that weakness.”