Knowing the Cafe de Paris to be shut at that hour, I didn't say a word, but quietly establisht myself in the ante-room; where, as it happened by a singler coinstdints, I could hear every word of the conversation between this exlent pair of relatifs.
“Help yourself, and get another bottle,” says my lord, after a sollum paws. My poar master, the king of all other compnies in which he moved, seamed here but to play secknd fiddill, and went to the cubbard, from which his father had already igstracted two bottils of his prime Sillary.
He put it down before his father, coft, spit, opened the windows, stirred the fire, yawned, clapt his hand to his forehead, and suttnly seamed as uneezy as a genlmn could be. But it was of no use; the old one would not budg. “Help yourself,” says he again, “and pass me the bottil.”
“You are very good, father,” says master; “but really, I neither drink nor smoke.”
“Right, my boy: quite right. Talk about a good conscience in this life—a good STOMACK is everythink. No bad nights, no headachs—eh? Quite cool and collected for your law studies in the morning?—eh?” And the old nobleman here grinned, in a manner which would have done creddit to Mr. Grimoldi.
Master sate pale and wincing, as I've seen a pore soldier under the cat. He didn't anser a word. His exlent pa went on, warming as he continued to speak, and drinking a fresh glas at evry full stop.
“How you must improve, with such talents and such principles! Why, Algernon, all London talks of your industry and perseverance: you're not merely a philosopher, man; hang it! you've got the philosopher's stone. Fine rooms, fine horses, champagne, and all for 200 a year!”
“I presume, sir,” says my master, “that you mean the two hundred a year which YOU pay me?”
“The very sum, my boy; the very sum!” cries my lord, laffin as if he would die. “Why, that's the wonder! I never pay the two hundred a year, and you keep all this state up upon nothing. Give me your secret, O you young Trismegistus! Tell your old father how such wonders can be worked, and I will—yes, then, upon my word, I will—pay you your two hundred a year!”
“Enfin, my lord,” says Mr. Deuceace, starting up, and losing all patience, “will you have the goodness to tell me what this visit means? You leave me to starve, for all you care; and you grow mighty facetious because I earn my bread. You find me in prosperity, and—”