In short, in his bringing up he has been so nursed by Law and Equity that he has become a kind of fossil imp, to account for whose terrestrial existence it is reported at the public offices that his father was John Doe and his mother the only female member of the Roe family, also that his first long-clothes were made from a blue bag.
Into the dining-house, unaffected by the seductive show in the window of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdant baskets of peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready for the spit, Mr.
Smallweed leads the way.

They know him there and defer to him.

He has his favourite box, he bespeaks all the papers, he is down upon bald patriarchs, who keep them more than ten minutes afterwards.

It is of no use trying him with anything less than a full-sized "bread" or proposing to him any joint in cut unless it is in the very best cut.
In the matter of gravy he is adamant.
Conscious of his elfin power and submitting to his dread experience, Mr.Guppy consults him in the choice of that day's banquet, turning an appealing look towards him as the waitress repeats the catalogue of viands and saying "What do YOU take, Chick ?" Chick, out of the profundity of his artfulness, preferring "veal and ham and French beans--and don't you forget the stuffing, Polly" (with an unearthly cock of his venerable eye), Mr.Guppy and Mr.Jobling give the like order.

Three pint pots of half-and-half are superadded.