Albion, are to be deluded by a Brummagem sovereign, or a note of the
Bank of Elegance. So, _presto_, to work! our blessing and a double
_pourboire_ your promised reward. And, verily, he earns them well. The
_potage à la bisque_ is irreproachable; the truffles, those black
diamonds of the epicure, are the pick of Perigueux; the chambertin is of
the old green seal, the sparkling _ai frappé_ to a turn, and, whilst we
tranquilly degustate and deliberately imbibe, the influence of that
greatest achievement of human genius, a good dinner, percolates through
our system, telling upon our moral as upon our physical man. We feel
ineffably benevolent: doubtless we look so; for yonder old gentleman
with the white hair, red ribbon, and ditto face, dining, _tête-à-tête_
with himself, and who is now at his eleventh dish--a tempting but
inexplicable compound, which Ortila himself would be puzzled to
analyse--contemplates us, in the intervals of his forkings-in, with a
benign and admiring look. Our trusty friend and _vis-à-vis_ turns his
head, and we behold ourselves reflected in the opposite mirror. 'Tis as
we thought: our physiognomy is philanthropical in the extreme. Quite the
"mild, angelic air," that Byron talks of, when describing a gentleman in
very different circumstances.

But we have no time to dwell upon our personal fascinations, or to
speculate upon the cause of their increase within the last half hour; no
eyes have we save for that Lucullian _salmi_ steaming before us; and,
like ourselves, all around us are absorbed in absorbing. Though every
table is full, there is little noise in the crowded apartment. Men go to
the _Maison Dorée_ to eat, not to chatter. Without, too, there is a
lull, after the bustle and racket of the afternoon. The day has been
splendid--crisp, bright, and invigorating, and all the dandies and
beauties of Paris have been abroad, driving in the Champs Elysées,
galloping through the leafless avenues of the Bois de Boulogne, basking