"Ah," said the count, "there is no fish like salmon early in the year;
but not too early. And it should come alive from Grove, and be cooked by
Stubbs."

"And eaten by me," said Boodle.

"Under my auspices," said the count, "and then all is well. Mr.
Clavering, a little bit near the head? Not care about any particular
part? That is wrong. Everybody should always learn what is the best to
eat of everything, and get it if they can."

"By George, I should think so," said Doodles. "I know I do."

"Not to know the bit out of the neck of the salmon from any other bit,
is not to know a false note from a true one. Not to distinguish a '51
wine from a '58, is to look at an arm or a leg on the canvas, and to
care nothing whether it is in drawing, or out of drawing. Not to know
Stubbs' beefsteak from other beefsteaks, is to say that every woman is
the same thing to you. Only, Stubbs will let you have his beefsteak if
you will pay him--him or his master. With the beautiful woman it is not
always so--not always. Do I make myself understood?"

"Clear as mud," said Doodles. "I'm quite along with you there. Why
should a man be ashamed of eating what's nice? Everybody does it."

"No, Captain Boodle; not everybody. Some cannot get it, and some do not
know it when it comes in their way. They are to be pitied. I do pity
them from the bottom of my heart. But there is one poor fellow I do pity
more even than they."

There was something in the tone of the count's words--a simple pathos,
and almost a melody, which interested Harry Clavering. No one knew
better than Count Pateroff how to use all the inflexions of his voice,
and produce from the phrases he used the very highest interest which
they were capable of producing. He now spoke of his pity in a way that
might almost have made a sensitive man weep. "Who is that you pity so
much?" Harry asked.

"The man who cannot digest," said the count, in a low, clear voice. Then
he bent down his head over the morsel of food on his plate, as though he
were desirous of hiding a tear. "The man who cannot digest!" As he
repeated the words he raised his head again, and looked round at all
their faces.

"Yes, yes; mein Gott, yes," said Schmoff, and even he appeared as though
he were almost moved from the deep quietude of his inward indifference.

"Ah; talk of blessings! What a blessing is digestion!" said the count.
"I do not know whether you have ever thought of it, Captain Boodle? You
are yo