“Going to have a son,” repeated Harley, looking very bewildered; “how do you know it is to be a son?”
“Physiologists are agreed,” said the sage, positively, “that where the husband is much older than the wife, and there has been a long interval without children before she condescends to increase the population of the world, she (that is, it is at least as nine to four)—she brings into the world a male. I consider that point therefore as settled, according to the calculations of statisticians and the researches of naturalists.”
Harley could not help laughing, though he was still angry and disturbed.
“The same man as ever; always the fool of philosophy.”
“Cospetto!” said Riccabocca. “I am rather the philosopher of fools. And talking of that, shall I present you to my Jemima?”
“Yes; but in turn I must present you to one who remembers with gratitude your kindness, and whom your philosophy, for a wonder, has not ruined. Some time or other you must explain that to me. Excuse me for a moment; I will go for him.
“For him,—for whom? In my position I must be cautious; and—”
“I will answer for his faith and discretion. Meanwhile order dinner, and let me and my friend stay to share it.”
“Dinner? Corpo di Bacco!—not that Bacchus can help us here. What will Jemima say?”
“Henpecked man, settle that with your connubial tyrant. But dinner it must be.”