'Ring him up, ring him up, Jorian. All I beg of you is not to disgust him with life, for he quits any service in the world to come to me, and, in fact, he suits me.' 'Exactly so: you spoil him.' My father shrugged. 'The state of the case is, that your stomach is growing delicate, friend Jorian.' 'The actual state of the case being, that my palate was never keener, and consequently my stomach knows its business.' 'You should have tried the cold turbot with oil and capers.' 'Your man had better stick to buttered eggs, in my opinion.' 'Say, porridge!' 'No, I'll be hanged if I think he's equal to a bowl of porridge.' 'Careme might have confessed to the same!' 'With this difference,' cried Jorian in a heat, 'that he would never have allowed the thought of any of your barbarous messes to occur to a man at table. Let me tell you, Roy, you astonish me: up till now I have never known you guilty of the bad taste of defending a bad dish on your own board.' 'Then you will the more readily pardon me, Jorian.' 'Oh, I pardon you,' Jorian sneered, tripped to the carpet by such ignoble mildness. 'A breakfast is no great loss.' My father assured him he would have a serious conversation with Alphonse, for whom he apologized by saying that Alphonse had not, to his knowledge, served as hospital cook anywhere, and was therefore quite possibly not sufficiently solicitous for appetites and digestions of invalids. Jorian threw back his head as though to discharge a spiteful sarcasm with good aim; but turning to me, said, 'Harry, the thing must be done; your father must marry. Notoriety is the season for a pick and choice of the wealthiest and the loveliest. I refuse to act the part of warming-pan any longer; I refuse point blank. It's not a personal feeling on my part; my advice is that of a disinterested friend, and I tell you candidly, Roy, set aside the absurd exhibition of my dancing attendance on that last rose of Guildhall,--egad, the alderman went like Summer, and left us the very picture of a fruity Autumn,--I say you can't keep her hanging on the tree of fond expectation for ever. She'll drop.' 'Catch her, Jorian; you are on guard.' 'Upwards of three hundred thousand, if a penny, Roy Richmond! Who? I? I am not a fortune-hunter.' 'Nor am I, friend Jorian.' 'No, it 's because you're not thorough: you 'll fall between the stools.' My father remarked that he should visit this upon Mr. Alphonse.