And the old man sat quietly staring at the hyacinths. He felt happy, his whole being lined and warmed and drowsed—and there was more to come! What had the holy folk to give you compared with the comfort of a good dinner? Could they make you dream, and see life rosy for a little? No, they could only give you promissory notes which never would be cashed. A man had nothing but his pluck—they only tried to undermine it, and make him squeal for help. He could see his precious doctor throwing up his hands: “Port after a bottle of champagne—you'll die of it!” And a very good death too—none better. A sound broke the silence of the closed-up room. Music? His daughter playing the piano overhead. Singing too! What a trickle of a voice! Jenny Lind! The Swedish nightingale—he had never missed the nights when she was singing—Jenny Lind!
“It's very hot, sir. Shall I take it out of the case?”
Ah! The ramequin!
“Touch of butter, and the cayenne!”
“Yes, sir.”
He ate it slowly, savouring each mouthful; had never tasted a better. With cheese—port! He drank one glass, and said:
“Help me to my chair.”
And settled there before the fire with decanter and glass and hand-bell on the little low table by his side, he murmured:
“Bring coffee, and my cigar, in twenty minutes.”
To-night he would do justice to his wine, not smoking till he had finished. As old Horace said: