ABSTRACT
The young Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghem for tomorrow, and accordingly, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice, and Temple Grace, assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour. The dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk; yet every thinga was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve, in his usual silent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without any oneb observing him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely presumed to bow to the Duke. He was very busy about the wine, and dressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled. Tom Cogit was the man for a sauce for a brown bird. What a mystery he made of it! Cayenne, and Burgundy, and limes were ingredients, but there was a magic in the incantation, with which he alone was acquainted. He took particular care to send a most perfect portion to the young Duke, and he did this, as he paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most marked consciousness of the sufferance which permitted his presence: never addressing his Grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, “Take this to the Duke;” or asking the attendant, “whether his Grace would try the Hermitage?”
