and ill-usage, sat spell-bound on my
comfortless perch, while he unfolded the tale of Gods and Goddesses, and
unveiled Olympus before my enraptured vision.

"Boy," said he suddenly, "can you cook a herring?"

I came down to earth with a bang. Stunned I stared at him. I distinctly
remember wondering where I was.

"Can you cook a herring?" he shouted.

"Yes, Sir," I cried, jumping to my feet.

"Then cook two--one for you and one for me. You'll find them somewhere
about the room, also tea and bread and butter and a gas-stove, and when
all is ready let me know."

He settled himself comfortably in bed and went on reading his book. It
was Hegel's Philosophy of History. I tried to read it afterwards and
found that it passed my understanding.

In a confused dream of gods and herrings, I set about my task. Heaven
only knows how I managed to succeed. In my childish imagination Jupiter
was clothed in the hirsute majesty of Paragot.

And I was to breakfast with him!

The herrings and a half-smoked pipe shared a plate on the top of the
ricketty chest of drawers. I had to blow the ash off the fish. A paper
of tea and a loaf of bread I found in a higgledy-piggledy mixture of
clothes, books and papers. My godlike friend had carelessly put his
hair-brush into the butter. The condition of the sole cooking utensil
warred even against my sense of the fitness of gridirons, and I cleansed
it with his towel.

Since then I have breakfasted in the houses of the wealthy, I have
lunched at the Cafe Anglais, I have dined at the Savoy but never have I
eaten, never till they give me a welcoming banquet in the Elysian fields,
shall I eat so ambrosial a meal as that first herring with Paragot.

When I had set it on the little deal table, he deigned to remember my
existence, and closing his book, rose, donned a pair of trousers and sat
down. He gave me my first lesson in table-manners.

"Boy," said he, "if you wish to adorn the high social spheres for which
you are destined, you must learn the value of convention. Bread and
cheese-straws and asparagus and the leaves of an artichoke are eaten
with the fingers; but not herrings or sweetbreads or ice cream. As
regards the last you are doubtless in the habit of extracting it from a
disappointing wine-glass with your tongue. This in _notre monde_ is
regarded as bad form. '_Notre Monde_' is French, a language which you
will have to learn. Its great use is in talking to English people when
you