"Who's to pay for it?" He peeped into the new dishes. Kidneys
entombed in an omelette, hot roast chicken in watery gravy, a
glazed but pallid pie.

"And who's to wash it up?" said the bedmaker to her help outside.

Ansell had disputed late last night concerning Schopenhauer, and
was a little cross and tired. He bounced over to Tilliard, who
kept opposite. Tilliard was eating gooseberry jam.

"Did Elliot ask you to breakfast with me?"

"No," said Tilliard mildly.

"Well, you'd better come, and bring every one you know."

So Tilliard came, bearing himself a little formally, for he was
not very intimate with his neighbour. Out of the window they
called to Widdrington. But he laid his hand on his stomach, thus
indicating it was too late.

"Who's to pay for it?" repeated Ansell, as a man appeared from
the Buttery carrying coffee on a bright tin tray.

"College coffee! How nice!" remarked Tilliard, who was cutting
the pie. "But before term ends you must come and try my new
machine. My sister gave it me. There is a bulb at the top, and as
the water boils--"