Moved by a sudden impulse, George made no remark, but moved to the elder man's side and offered his arm. The footman was holding the door open, and Derrington could not express, even by a look, the satisfaction he felt. With a surly grunt he took Brendon's arm, but George guessed by the warm pressure that Derrington was pleased. That simple, kindly movement served to draw the two men closer together, and they sat down to an excellent dinner in good spirits. It was quite a banquet, for Derrington lived in a most expensive manner, and in spite of a sadly diminished income he would never abate the splendor of the style in which he had lived all his life. The table was a round one, laid with exquisite taste, and was placed under a kind of velvet tent, which shut off the rest of the room and made the meal particularly cosy. George, who had a taste for art, admired the finish of the silver, the beauty of the Crown Derby service, the glitter of the cut glass, which was unusually massive, and the adornments of the table. It was a perfect little banquet, and after the somewhat stale food of his lodgings, George enjoyed the meal greatly. Derrington himself did not eat much, but he took great pleasure in seeing George enjoy his viands. "I had a fine appetite myself once," he observed; "you have inherited it from me. Never be ashamed to eat, George--it means good work. The man who starves himself, starves his public." "You mean in the quality of his work, sir?" "Of course. Poor living means poor thoughts." "Well," said Brendon, with a smile, "I don't think rich living means rich thoughts." "Certainly not. Whoever said it did? Remember the saying of the Greeks, and, egad, they were the only people who ever knew how to live." "What saying is that?" asked George. "Moderation is the corner-stone of dissipation." "Ah, that's good, sir. But were the Greeks ever dissipated?" "No, because they followed the advice of that epigram. George, if you expect me to explain epigrams I shall lose my respect for you." "Have you any, sir?" "You wouldn't be here if I had not," said Derrington, pulling his huge mustache. "There's your Cousin Walter----" "My cousin, sir?" "Of course. You know that." George thought it wiser, to say nothing, although it was strange that Derrington should mention the relationship himself. The old man gave him a quick glance and continued: "As I say, there is your Cousin Walter. I wouldn't ask him to dinner on any account. He's a fool, sir." "He means well." "If there is one class of people I hate more than another it is that Pharisaic lot who mean well. They make all the mischief." "With the best intentions," put in Brendon, taking some wine. "Best intentions are fatal. How many plans have come to naught because of best intentions? Take some of that port." "No more, thank you, sir." "I insist. There are walnuts." "I don't mind the nuts, but the port----" George shook his head.