"Bring me a sandwich—and—and, waiter, see that I have plenty of— plenty of—"
"What, sir?"
"Plenty of mustard, waiter."
"Mustard" (and here Mr. Brown addressed himself to Clarence) "is a very wonderful assistance to the digestion. By the by, sir, if you want any curiously fine mustard, I can procure you some pots quite capital,—a great favour, though,—they were smuggled from France, especially for the use of the late Lady Waddilove."
"Thank you," said Linden, dryly; "I shall be very happy to accept anything you may wish to offer me."
Mr. Brown took a pocket-book from his pouch. "Six pots of mustard, sir,—shall I say six?"
"As many as you please," replied Clarence; and Mr. Brown wrote down
"Six pots of French mustard."
"You are a very young gentleman, sir," said Mr. Brown, "probably intended for some profession: I don't mean to be impertinent, but if I can be of any assistance—"
"You can, sir," replied Linden, "and immediately—have the kindness to ring the bell."
Mr. Brown, with a grave smile, did as he was desired; the waiter re- entered, and, receiving a whispered order from Clarence, again disappeared.