At one o'clock Alice laid the cloth and we had dinner. Tom lifted the knife and fork and held it over the cold boiled beef as if fearing to mar that delicate dish by a false or clumsy cut. 'Is there anything,' he said, 'more delicious to the palate than cold boiled beef? It must be cut delicately and with judgment--with judgment, Will.' He proceeded to exercise judgment. There was a cabbage on the table. 'This delicacy,' he said, 'is actually grown for us--for us--in the gardens of Lambeth Marsh. Remark the crispness of it: there is a solid heart for you: there is colour: there is flavour.' All this was, I remember, the grossest flattery. 'Oat cake,' he said, breaking a piece. 'Some, I believe, prefer wheaten bread. They do wrong. Viands must not be judged by their cost but by their fitness to others on the table, and by the season. Remember, Will, that with cold boiled beef, oat cake is your only eating.' He poured out some beer into a glass and held it up to the light. 'Watch the sparkles: hear the humming: strong October this'--it was the most common small beer--'have a care, Will, have a care.' And so on, turning the simple meal into a banquet. His wife and sister received these extravagances without a smile. They were used to them. The latter, at least, believed that they were the simple truth. The poor girl was innocently proud of her humble home, this cottage on St. George's Fields, within the Rules. After dinner, we talked. As the subject was Music Tom was somewhat carried away; yet there was method in his madness. 'I said, lad, that there would be no Art if there were no necessity. 'Tis Poverty alone makes men became musicians and painters and poets. Where can you find a rich man who was ever a great artist? I am no scholar, but I have asked scholars this question, and they agree with me that riches destroy Art. Hardly may Dives become even a Connoisseur. He may become a general or a statesman: we do not take all from him: we leave him something--but not the best--that we keep for ourselves--we keep Art for ourselves. As for a rich merchant becoming a musician or a painter--it is impossible: one laughs at the very thought.' 'Well, that danger is gone, Tom, so far as I am concerned.' 'Ay. The reason I take it, is that Art demands the whole man--not a bit of him--the whole man--all his soul, all his mind, all his thoughts, all his strength. You must give all that to music, Will.' 'I ask nothing better.' 'Another reason is that Art raises a man's thoughts to a higher level than is wanted for Trade. It is impossible for a man's mind to soar or to sink according as he thinks of art or trade. You will remember, Will, for your comfort, that your mind is raised above the City.' 'I will remember.' 'Well, then, let us think about what is best to be done.' He pondered a little. Then he smiled. 'Put pride in pocket, Will. Now what would you like?' 'To write great music.'