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 we have; it is the birthright of us all—an adumbration of our exaggerated reverence for mud, and stones, and bricks, and mortar. Liberty, Jools, I regret to say, we have not. We are all base slaves—"

"Of the External," said Northcote, with a lustre in his eyes that the wine had kindled. "There is no slave like a Saxon. In his scheme of sense the eye takes precedence. Even his religion is Money."

"Ah, no," said the chef, with much amiability, "you English have no avarice like we have in my native Normandy."

"An Englishman's avarice is not of the heart, but of the spirit," said Northcote, with the melancholy calmness of one who knows everything.

"You haf your Shakespeare, your Milton," said Jools.

"I think sometimes we could afford to exchange them both for your Honoré Balzac," said Northcote.

"You would be unwise to do so," said the chef. "Your Shakespeare is among the first order of mankind. He is greater than Molière; my faith! he is as great as Napoleon."

"Perhaps you are right, but your Honoré Balzac showed the bourgeoisie its every form and feature."

"Truly," said the chef, with a sly laugh; "but you have ceased to be bourgeois in your England nowadays."

"Since when, sir?" said the young advocate, with a flame in his eyes. "Since we have learned the trick of calling our mean ambitions by high-sounding names?"