"You're a trump!" said Frank, jumping up, and shaking him by the hand. "I have asked that question of eight of my friends within the last two days, and—it was very unfortunate—but at that moment not one of them could lay his hand upon such a thing, damn my whiskers!"
Cecil passed the sovereign to him.
"At any rate, I shall dine to-day," Frank exclaimed.
"Is that anything new, then?"
"So completely novel, that it has not occurred this whole week. In fact, I haven't what I call dined for a month; I have only stifled the baser cravings of hunger, but not satisfied those higher and, perhaps, more imperious cravings of the man who knows how to dine. For, as you know, it is one thing to eat, another thing to eat as an intellectual being should eat. It breaks my heart to pass the club windows, and know how many facilities there are within of dining as a man with an immortal soul should dine,—and to reflect how few among the diners know how to accomplish that solemnity."
"Well, but do you mean to say that, in your present state of finances, you intend spending that sovereign on your dinner?"
"That, or the greater part of it," replied Frank, with considerable seriousness. "I have a strong desire to dine. I can support hunger, I can live upon a crust (if forced), but, damn my whiskers! from time to time I must satisfy the higher cravings of my nature, and dine."
"Frank, you shall dine to-day, and at my invitation; save that sovereign for next week. I warn you, that you will seldom get one from me after this; for I myself am poor. So make the most of it; but to-day we'll dine together."
"We will; the suggestion does credit to your head and heart, Cis."