transmutation of the baser metals or tossed you a phrase from Paracelsus.
Or with long instructive finger he dissertated on the celestial universe.
One would have thought that he had stood by on the making of it and that
his judgment had prevailed in the larger problems. Yet he did not neglect
his trencher.

And now as time went on, the richness of the food did somewhat dominate his
person. The girth of his wisdom grew no less, but his body fattened. In
a word, the good gentleman's palate came to vie with his intellect. Less
often was he engaged upon some dark saying of Isidore of Seville. Rather,
even if his favorite topic astrology were uppermost about the table, his
eye travelled to the pantry on every change of dishes. His fingers, too,
came to curl most delicately on his fork. He used it like an epicure,
poking his viands apart for sharpest scrutiny. His nod upon a compote was
much esteemed.

Now mark his further decline! On an occasion--surely the old rascal's head
is turned!--he would be found in private talk with his hostess, the Lady of
Middlesex, or with the Countess of Monmouth, not as you might expect, on
the properties of fire or on the mortal diseases of man, but--on subjects
quite removed. Society, we may be sure, began to whisper of these snug
parleys in the arbor after dinner, these shadowed mumblings on the balcony
when the moon was up--and Lady Digby stiffened into watchfulness. It was
when they took leave that she saw the Countess slip a note into her lord's
fingers. Her jealousy broke out. "Viper!" She spat the words and seized her
husband's wrist. Of course the note was read. It proved, however, that Sir
Kenelm was innocent of all mischief. To the disappointment of the gossips,
who were tuned to a spicier anticipation, the note was no more than a
recipe of the manner that the Countess was used to mix her syllabub, with
instruction that it was the "rosemary a little bruised and the limon-peal