“That is very nicely done,” said my mother, on her return to the kitchen. “You are a good helpful little boy; and now go and put on your best suit for breakfast, as somebody is coming.”

This somebody was Dr. Lombalot, the old surgeon-major of my father’s former regiment. When he retired from the army he settled at Tours. He was to arrive by an early train.

“He is a great original,” said my mother, “but your father likes him very much.”

He was indeed an original! He had all sorts of theories upon various subjects and systems of doing things, which he always made out must be right. For instance, he never ate a boiled egg like the rest of the world, and he proved that the rest of the world was wrong in the way it ate them. “Omelettes, yes, Ma’am, omelettes,” said he, looking at my mother across the breakfast table, “omelettes ought to be done in a certain particular way known only to myself; but I am willing to give the receipt”—here he made a little bow to my mother,—“and you should always pour in the oil before the vinegar in making a salad,”—here he twinkled his eye maliciously at my father, who was mixing a salad, and had just poured in the vinegar first.

One of his theories was, he informed us, that neither men nor boys should wear braces. And then he announced that people should always walk upstairs backwards, so as not to get out of breath. Here I unfortunately swallowed some coffee the wrong way, and choked myself, because I was bursting with laughter; the doctor wiped his spectacles, and putting them on, stared at my nose, which I felt turn pale.

“And phrenology?” said my father hastily, wishing to divert his attention, “you still study phrenology?”

“TH............