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?'
After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compounding
some wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down to
_ecarte_. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemed
a general understanding among all the parties that to-night was to be a
pitched battle, and they began at once, briskly. Yet, in spite of their
universal determination, midnight arrived without anything decisive.
Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the Baron's
elbow and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand.
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