"What a dear old trump the colonel is," said Fitz, turning to me, his
face wrinkling all over with suppressed laughter.

All this time Chad was passing in and out, bearing dishes and viands,
and when all was ready and the table candles were lighted, he announced
that fact softly to his master and took his customary place behind his
chair.

The colonel was as delightful as ever, his talk ranging from politics
and family blood to possum hunts and modern literature, while the
mutton and its accessories did full credit to Chad's culinary skill.

In fact the head of the colonel's table was his throne. Nowhere else
was he so charming, and nowhere else did the many sides to his
delightful nature give out such varied hues.

Fitz, practical business man as he was, would listen to his many schemes
by the hour, charmed into silence and attentive appreciation by the
sublime faith that sustained his host, and the perfect honesty and
sincerity underlying everything he did. But it was not until the cheese
had completely lost its geometrical form, the coffee served, and the
pipes lighted, that the subject which of all others absorbed him was
broached. Indeed, it was a rule of the colonel's, never infringed upon,
that, no matter how urgent the business, the dinner-hour was to be
kept sacred.

"Salt yo' food, suh, with humor," he would say. "Season it with wit,
and sprinkle it all over with the charm of good-fellowship, but never
poison it with the cares of yo' life. It is an insult to yo' digestion,
besides bein', suh, a mark of bad breedin'."