'Three!'

'Observe, that if you care for worldly honours, I can smother you with
that kind of thing. Several of your first-rate people made a bargain with
me when they were in the fog, and owe me a trifle. Patronage they call
it. I hook the high and the low. Too-little and too-much serve me better
than Beelzebub. A weak stomach is certainly more carnally virtuous than a
full one. Consequently my kingdom is becoming too respectable. They've
all got titles, and object to being asked to poke the fire
without--Honourable-and-with-Exceeding-Brightness-Beaming Baroness This!
Admirably-Benignant-Down-looking Highness That! Interrupts business,
especially when you have to ask them to fry themselves, according to the
rules . . . Would you like Mainz and the Rheingau? . . . You don't care
for Beauty--Puella, Puellae? I have plenty of them, too, below. The
Historical Beauties warmed up at a moment's notice. Modern ones made
famous between morning and night--Fame is the sauce of Beauty. Or,
no--eh?'

'Four!'

'Not quite so fast, if you please. You want me gone. Now, where's your
charity? Do you ask me to be always raking up those poor devils
underneath? While I'm here, they've a respite. They cannot think you
kind, Father Gregory! As for the harm, you see, I'm not the more
agreeable by being face to face with you--though some fair dames do take
to my person monstrously. The secret is, the quantity of small talk I can
command: that makes them forget my smell, which is, I confess,
abominable, displeasing to myself, and my worst curse. Your sort, Father
Gregory, are somewhat unpleasant in that particular--if I may judge by
their Legate here. Well, try small talk. They would fall desperately in