old china cup—it was then about midday—and looking at a collection of wallflowers in the balcony.
He was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but rose and received us in his usual airy manner.
“Here I am, you see!” he said when we were seated, not without some little difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being broken. “Here I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs of beef and mutton for breakfast; I don’t. Give me my peach, my cup of coffee, and my claret; I am content. I don’t want them for themselves, but they remind me of the sun. There’s nothing solar about legs of beef and mutton. Mere animal satisfaction!”
“This is our friend’s consulting-room (or would be, if he ever prescribed), his sanctum, his studio,” said my guardian to us.
“Yes,” said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, “this is the bird’s cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They pluck his feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings, he sings!”