PIFF. (Standing by Allen’s l. elbow c. Peters r. of table R.) May I get you a little pâté de foie gras, sir?
ALLEN. (Looking round, and speaking in a hushed voice.) I beg pardon?
PIFF. A little pâté de foie gras, sir.
ALLEN. Patty who?
PIFF. Goose’s liver, sir. I think you will like it.
ALLEN. No, thanks; I never eats liver. It don’t agree with me. I will have a bit o’ the bacon though.
PIFF. No, sir; it is not dressed that way, sir. I would get used to it if I were you, sir. You will so often come across it. Peters, just pass your master the pâté de foie gras.
(Peters goes to do so. Allen who has turned again towards his breakfast is about to take up some gravy from his plate with his knife).
PIFF. (Checks him.) I wouldn’t lap up the gravy with my knife, sir. I don’t think. It’s never done now in good society, sir.
ALLEN. It—it’s the best part of it, you know, I alius thinks—the gravy