The Babe breakfasted next morning at the civilised hour of ten, and observed with a faint smile that the rocket stick was deeply imbedded in the ceiling, and he ate his eggs and bacon with a serene sense of the successful incongruity of his little party the night before. The gentleman from Oxford who was staying with him had not yet appeared, but the Babe waited for no man, when he was hungry. The furniture of his rooms was as various and as diverse as his accomplishments. Several of Mr. Aubrey Beardsley’s illustrations from the Yellow Book, clustering round a large photograph of Botticelli’s Primavera, which the Babe had never seen, hung above one of the broken sofas, and in his bookcase several numbers of the Yellow Book, which the Babe declared bitterly had turned grey in a single night, since the former artist had ceased to draw for it, were ranged side by side with Butler’s _Analogies_, Mr. Sponge’s _Sporting Tour_, and Miss Marie Corelli’s _Barabbas_. It is, however, only fair to the Babe to say that Bishop Butler’s volume had been part of the “set piece” for his Littlego, and that he referred to Miss Corelli as the arch humourist of English literature. A pair of dumb-bells, each weighing fifty-six pounds, stood by the fireplace, but these the Babe had never been known to use in order to further his muscular development; he only rolled them over the floor with the patient look of one who had the destinies of the world on his shoulders, whenever the lodger below played the piano. It may be remarked that the two were not on speaking terms. “And herein,” said the Babe, when he explained the use of the dumb-bells the evening before, “herein lies half the bitterness of human life.” He was pressed to explain further, but only replied sadly, “So near and yet so far,” and showed how it was possible to imitate the experience of a sea-sick passenger on the channel, by means of “that simple, and I may add, delicious fruit, the common orange.” It was a most realistic and spirited performance, and all that the Dean could do was to ejaculate feebly, “Do stop, Babe,” between his spasms of laughter. The Babe had finished his breakfast, which he ate with a good appetite, heartily, before the gentleman from Oxford appeared, and proceeded to skim the _Sunday Times_. When he did appear he looked a little disconsolately at the breakfast table, and lifting up a dish-cover found some cold bacon, at which he blanched visibly, and demanded soda water. “What did you eat for breakfast, Babe?” he asked. The Babe looked up apologetically. “I’m afraid I ate all the eggs, and the bacon must be cold by now,” he said. “But I’ll send for some more.” “No thanks. Where’s the tea?” The Babe rang the bell. “It’ll be here in a moment. I drank cocoa.” Leamington finished his soda water, and sat down. “There is no end to your greatness. Cocoa! Great Scot! My tongue is the colour of mortar.”