“No, old son,” laughed Baltazar, giving him a morsel of salmon, “we’re not at that point yet. Make your mind easy. You and I and Quong Ho will take our work out into the hurrying markets of the earth and find justification for all these lonely days. Although we’re temporary recluses, we’re valuable citizens of the world. We deserve more salmon.” Quong Ho presented the dish, and Baltazar and Brutus got their deserts. Presently Quong Ho brought in lamb cutlets with fresh peas from the garden, which Baltazar attacked with relish. “Quong Ho,” said Baltazar, “you’re a wonder. Is there anything you can’t do?” The young man smiled bland recognition of the compliment, but said nothing. As Baltazar’s body-servant he refrained from familiar conversation. But Baltazar was in an expansive mood. He went on: “You cook for me enchantingly. You serve me perfectly. Your attitude, Quong Ho, is one of the most exquisite tact. But if we were the last two persons on the earth, you would see me damned before you would devote yourself to my personal comfort in this unrestricted manner.” “I think not,” replied Quong Ho. “The truths of religion would not be affected by the annihilation of the human race. To you, who are to me _in loco parenti_——” “_Parentis_, my dear fellow. It’s Latin. Make a note of it.” “I do so, mentally,” said Quong Ho. “To you, sir, who are to me in the place of a parent, I owe filial obligation, and therefore I should not see you damned before I administered to your wants.” “Rubbish!” said Baltazar, with a wave of his hand. “I speak the truth,” said Quong Ho gravely. Baltazar did not reply, but devoted himself to the cutlets and peas.