Certainly the breakfast tongue, which was for the first time that morning, was not of the pleasant reddish hue which Mrs. Altham was justified in expecting considering that the delicacy in question was not an ordinary tinned tongue (you had to take things as you found them, if your false sense of economy led you to order tinned goods) but one that came out of a fine glass receptacle with an eminent label on it. It was more of the colour of cold mutton, unattractive if not absolutely unpleasant to the eye, while to the palate it proved to be singularly lacking in flavour. Altogether it was a great disappointment, and for reason, when Mr. Altham set out at a quarter-past twelve to stroll along…
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