For himself, as a man and a philosopher, Adrian had no objection to its being either; and he had only to consider which was temporarily most threatening to the ridiculous System he had to support.

Richard's absence annoyed him.
The youth was vivacious, and his enthusiasm good fun; and besides, when he left table, Adrian had to sit alone with Hippias and the Eighteenth Century, from both of whom he had extracted all the amusement that could be got, and he saw his digestion menaced by the society of two ruined stomachs, who bored him just when he loved himself most.

Poor Hippias was now so reduced that he had profoundly to calculate whether a particular dish, or an extra-glass of wine, would have a bitter effect on him and be felt through the remainder of his years.

He was in the habit of uttering his calculations half aloud, wherein the prophetic doubts of experience, and the succulent insinuations of appetite, contended hotly.

It was horrible to hear him, so let us pardon Adrian for tempting him to a decision in favour of the moment.
"Happy to take wine with you," Adrian would say, and Hippias would regard the decanter with a pained forehead, and put up the doctor.
"Drink, nephew Hippy, and think of the doctor to-morrow!" the Eighteenth Century cheerily ruffles her cap at him, and recommends her own practice.
"It's this literary work!" interjects Hippias, handling his glass of remorse.