"I'm not ungrateful. I don't despise the crumbs."
Which remark, now that I come to think of it, was not flattering to my
young friend.
But what is the use of thinking of it? My fire is burning low. It is
time I ended this portion of my "Rule and Example of Eumoiriety," which,
I fear, has not followed the philosophic line I originally intended.
The die is cast. My things are packed. Rogers, who likes his British
beef and comforts, is resigned to the prospect of Continental travel,
and has gone to bed hours ago. There is no more soda water in the
siphon. I must go to bed.
Paris to-morrow.
CHAPTER X
"Ay!" says Touchstone; "now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was
at home I was in a better place."
Now am I in Algiers; the more fool I; et cetera, et cetera.
It is true that from my bedroom window in the Albany I cannot see
the moon silvering the Mediterranean, or hear the soft swish of
pepper-trees; it is true that oranges and eucalyptus do not flourish
in the Albany Court-yard as they do in this hotel garden at Mustapha
Superieur; it is true that the blue African sky and sunshine are more
agreeable than Piccadilly fogs; but, after all, his own kennel is
best for a dying dog, and his own familiar surroundings best for his
declining hours.
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