rather had produced on his part a sentimental ebullition that had
absolutely destined or doomed him to the Church.

'I should like to see the fellow who did not like Eton,' said Coningsby,
briskly, determined this time to be very brave.

'Gad I must go down and see the old place,' said Mr. Ormsby, touched by a
pensive reminiscence. 'One can get a good bed and bottle of port at the
Christopher, still?'

'You had better come and try, sir,' said Coningsby. 'If you will come some
day and dine with me at the Christopher, I will give you such a bottle of
champagne as you never tasted yet.'

The Marquess looked at him, but said nothing.

'Ah! I liked a dinner at the Christopher,' said Mr. Ormsby; 'after mutton,
mutton, mutton, every day, it was not a bad thing.'

'We had venison for dinner every week last season,' said Coningsby;
'Buckhurst had it sent up from his park. But I don't care for dinner.
Breakfast is my lounge.'

'Ah! those little rolls and pats of butter!' said Mr. Ormsby. 'Short
commons, though. What do you think we did in my time? We used to send over
the way to get a mutton-chop.'

'I wish you could see Buckhurst and me at breakfast,' said Coningsby,
'with a pound of Castle's sausages!'