looks just like one of the long worms that will gnaw a beam through,
give them time enough."

"That is the way, young man," returned he of the forty years and the
dyed whiskers:

"The rose has lived the life of a rose--
A morning's space."

"Aha! here is a magnificent _soupe-au-rama_," cried Poiret as
Christophe came in bearing the soup with cautious heed.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mme. Vauquer; "it is _soupe aux
choux_."

All the young men roared with laughter.

"Had you there, Poiret!"

"Poir-r-r-rette! she had you there!"

"Score two points to Mamma Vauquer," said Vautrin.

"Did any of you notice the fog this morning?" asked the official.

"It was a frantic fog," said Bianchon, "a fog unparalleled, doleful,
melancholy, sea-green, asthmatical--a Goriot of a fog!"

"A Goriorama," said the art student, "because you couldn't see a thing
in it."