_You're_ a politician, Cluffe, and read the papers.

You remember the bill of fare--don't you ?--at the Lord Mayor's entertainment in London.' Cluffe, whose mind was full of other matters, nodded his head with a grunt.
'Well, I'll take my oath,' pursued Puddock, 'you couldn't have made a better dinner at the Prince of Travendahl's table.

Spanish olea, if you please--ragou royal, cardoons, tendrons, shellfish in marinade, ruffs and rees, wheat-ears, green morels, fat livers, combs and notts.

'Tis rather odd, Sir, to us who employ them, to learn that our tailors, while we're eating the dinners we do--our _tailors_, Sir, are absolutely gorging themselves with such things--with _our_ money, by Jove!' '_Yours_, Puddock, not mine,' said Devereux.

'I haven't paid a tailor these six years.