"Thank you," said the Frenchman simply; "he told me that your heart
was good. If you don't mind the kitchen, you could write there at your
ease."

Shelton wrote his letter at the table of this stone-flagged kitchen in
company with an aged, dried-up gentleman; who was muttering to himself;
and Shelton tried to avoid attracting his attention, suspecting that he
was not sober. Just as he was about to take his leave, however, the old
fellow thus accosted him:

"Did you ever go to the dentist, mister?" he said, working at a loose
tooth with his shrivelled fingers. "I went to a dentist once, who
professed to stop teeth without giving pain, and the beggar did stop my
teeth without pain; but did they stay in, those stoppings? No, my bhoy;
they came out before you could say Jack Robinson. Now, I shimply ask
you, d'you call that dentistry?" Fixing his eyes on Shelton's collar,
which had the misfortune to be high and clean, he resumed with drunken
scorn: "Ut's the same all over this pharisaical counthry. Talk of high
morality and Anglo-Shaxon civilisation! The world was never at such
low ebb! Phwhat's all this morality? Ut stinks of the shop. Look at the
condition of Art in this counthry! look at the fools you see upon th'
stage! look at the pictures and books that sell! I know what I'm talking
about, though I am a sandwich man. Phwhat's the secret of ut all? Shop,
my bhoy! Ut don't pay to go below a certain depth! Scratch the skin, but
pierce ut--Oh! dear, no! We hate to see the blood fly, eh?"

Shelton stood disconcerted, not knowing if he were expected to reply;
but the old gentleman, pursing up his lips, went on: