But to watch Jorian you cannot help entering into his enjoyment of it.

He will have his window with a view of the sunset; there is his fire, his warmed linen, and his shirt-studs; his bath, his choice of a dozen things he will or will not wear; the landlord's or host's menu is up against the looking-glass, and the extremely handsome miniature likeness of his wife, who is in the madhouse, by a celebrated painter, I forget his name.

Jorian calls this, new birth--you catch his idea?
He throws off the old and is on with the new with a highly hopeful anticipation.

His valet is a scoundrel, but never fails in extracting the menu from the cook, wherever he may be, and, in fine, is too attentive to the hour's devotion to be discarded! Poor Jorian.

I know no man I pity so much.' I conceived him, I confessed, hardly pitiable, though not enviable.
'He has but six hundred a year, and a passion for Burgundy,' said my father.
We were four at table.