“I should like to hear Mr. Hickman's judgment on it,” said Lady Eleanor, with a sly smile. “If it's a plain joint, my Lady, boiled or roasted, without spices or devilment in it, but just the way Providence intended--” “May I ask, sir, how you suppose Providence intended to recommend any particular kind of cookery?” said Helen, seriously. “Whatever is most natural, most simple, the easiest to do,” stammered out Hickman, not over pleased at being asked for an explanation. “Then the Cossack ranks first in the art,” exclaimed Forester; “for nothing can be more simple or easier than to take a slice of a live ox and hang it up in the sun for ten or fifteen minutes.” “Them's barbarians,” said Hickman, with an emphasis that made the listeners find it no easy task to keep down a laugh. “Luncheon, my Lady,” said old Tate Sullivan, as with a reverential bow he opened the folding-doors into a small breakfast parlor, where an exquisitely served table was laid out. “Practice before precept, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor; “will you join us at luncheon, where I hope you may find something to your liking?” As the old man seated himself at the table, his eye ranged over the cabinet pictures that covered the walls, the richly chased silver on the table, and the massive wine-coolers that stood on the sideboard, with an eye whose brilliancy betokened far more the covetous taste of the miser than the pleased expression of mere connoisseurship; nor could he recall himself from their admiration to hear Forester's twice-repeated question as to what he would eat. “'T is elegant fine plate, no doubt of it,” muttered he, below his breath; “and the pictures may be worth as much more--ay!” The last monosyllable was the only part of his speech audible, and being interpreted by Forester as a reply to his request, he at once helped the old gentleman to a very highly seasoned French dish before him. “Eh! what's this?” said Hickman, as he surveyed his plate with unfeigned astonishment; “if I did n't see it laid down on your Ladyship's table, I 'd swear it was a bit of Gal way marble.” “It's a _gélatine truffée_, Mr. Hickman,” said Forester, who was well aware of its merits. “Be it so, in the name of God!” said Hickman, with resignation, as though to say that any one who could eat it might take the trouble to learn the name. “Ay, my Lady, that 's what I like, a slice of Kerry beef,--a beast made for man's eating.” “Mr. Hickman's pony is more of an epicure than his master,” said Forester, as he arose from his chair and moved towards the glass-door that opened on the garden; “he has just eaten the top of your lemon-tree.” “And by way of dessert, he is now cropping my japonica,” cried Helen, as she sprang from the room to rescue her favorite plant. Forester followed her, and Lady Eleanor was left alone with the doctor. “Now, my Lady, that I have the opportunity,--and sure it was luck gave it to me,--would you give me the favor of a little private conversation?”