had--"

"What then?"

"The family itself, sir."

The old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, but of contempt.
In his eyes I had evidently just proved myself a barbarian, incapable of
understanding the arts, and unworthy of enjoying them. He got up without
answering me, hastily took up the Jordaens, and replaced it in its
hiding-place behind the prints.

It was a sort of dismissal; I took leave of him, and went away.


Seven o'clock.--When I come in again, I find my water boiling over my
lamp, and I busy myself in grinding my Mocha, and setting out my coffee-
things.

The getting coffee ready is the most delicate and most attractive of
domestic operations to one who lives alone: it is the grand work of a
bachelor's housekeeping.

Coffee is, so to say, just the mid-point between bodily and spiritual
nourishment. It acts agreeably, and at the same time, upon the senses
and the thoughts. Its very fragrance gives a sort of delightful activity
to the wits; it is a genius that lends wings to our fancy, and transports
it to the land of the Arabian Nights.

When I am buried in my old easy-chair, my feet on the fender before a