Book One - Chapter 9 In Which I Stumble Upon An Affair of Honor

There are times (as I suppose) when the most aesthetic of souls
will forget the snow of lilies, and the down of a butterfly's
wing, to revel in the grosser joys of, say, a beefsteak. One
cannot rhapsodize upon the beauties of a sunset, or contemplate
the pale witchery of the moon with any real degree of poetic
fervor, or any degree of comfort, while hunger gnaws at one's
vitals, for comfort is essential to your aesthete, and, after
all, soul goes hand in hand with stomach.

Thus, I swung along the road beneath the swaying green of trees,
past the fragrant, blooming hedges, paying small heed to the
beauties of wooded hill and grassy dale, my eyes constantly
searching the road before me for some sign of the "Old Cock"
tavern. And presently, sure enough, I espied it, an ugly,
flat-fronted building, before which stood a dilapidated horse
trough and a battered sign. Despite its uninviting exterior, I
hurried forward, and mounting the three worn steps pushed open the
door. I now found myself in a room of somewhat uninviting aspect,
though upon the hearth a smouldering fire was being kicked into a
blaze by a sulky-faced fellow, to whom I addressed myself: "Can I have some breakfast here?" said I.

"Why, it's all according, master," he answered, in a surly tone.

"According to what?" said I.

"According to what you want, master."