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round the chaste bedroom were more French prints, either portraits of gauzy nymphs of the Opera or lovely illustrations of the novels; or mayhap, an English chef-d'oeuvre or two, in which Miss Pinckney of T. R. E. O. would be represented in tight pantaloons in her favorite page part; or Miss Rougemont as Venus; their value enhanced by the signatures of these ladies, Maria Pinckney, or Frederica Rougemont, inscribed underneath the prints in an exquisite fac-simile. Such were the pictures in which honest Harry delighted. He was no worse than many of his neighbors: he was an idle jovial kindly fast man about town; and if his rooms were rather profusely decorated with works of French art, so that simple Lady Agnes, his mamma, on entering the apartments where her darling sat enveloped in fragrant clouds of Latakia, was often bewildered by the novelties which she beheld there, why, it must be remembered, that he was richer than most young men, and could better afford to gratify his taste. A letter from Miss Pinckney, written in a very dégagé style of spelling and hand-writing, scrawling freely over the filigree paper, and commencing by calling Mr. Harry her dear Hokey-pokey-fokey, lay on his bed-table by his side, amidst keys, sovereigns, cigar-cases, and a bit of verbena, which Miss Amory had given him, and reminding him of the arrival of the day when he was “to stand that dinner at the Elefant and Castle, at Richmond, which he had promised; ” a card for a private box at Miss Rougemont's approaching benefit, a bundle of tickets for “Ben Budgeon's night, the North Lancashire Pippin, at Martin Faunce's, the Three-cornered Hat, in St. Martin's Lane; where Conkey Sam, Dick the Nailor, the Deadman (the Worcestershire Nobber), would put on the gloves, and the lovers of the good old British sport were invited to attend”—these and sundry other memoirs of Mr. Foker's pursuits and pleasures lay on the table by his side when he woke. Ah! how faint all these pleasures seemed now ! What did he care for Conkey Sam or the Worcestershire Nobber ? What for the French prints ogling him from all sides of the room; those regular stunning slap-up out-and-outers ? And Pinckney spelling bad and calling him Hokey-fokey, confound her im. pudence 1 The idea of being engaged to a dinner at the Elephant and Castle at Richmond with that old woman (who was seven and thirty years old, if she was a day) filled his mind with dreary disgust now, instead of that pleasure which he had only yesterday expected to find from the entertainment. When his fond mamma beheld her boy that morning, she remarked on the pallor of his cheek, and the general gloom of his aspect. “Why do you go on playing billiards at that wicked Spratt's 2" Lady Agnes asked. “My dearest child, those billiards will kill you, I'm sure they will.” “It is n’t the billiards,” Harry said, gloomily. “Then it's the dreadful Back Kitchen,” said the Lady Agnes. “I’ve often thought, d'you know, Harry, of writing to the landlady, and begging that she would have the kindness to put only very little wine in the negus which you take, and see that you have your shawl on before you get into your brougham.” “Do, Ma'am. Mrs. Cutts is a most kind motherly woman,” Harry said. “But it isn't the Back Kitchen, neither,” he added, with a ghastly sigh. As Lady Agnes never denied her son anything, and fell into all his ways with the fondest acquiescence, she was rewarded by a perfect confidence on young Harry's part, who never thought to disguise from her a knowledge of the haunts which he frequented; and, on the contrary, brought her home choice anecdotes from the clubs and billiard-rooms, which the simple lady relished, if she did not understand. “My son goes to Spratt's,” she would say to her confidential friends. “All the young men go to Spratt's after their balls. It is de rigueur, my dear; and they play billiards as they used to play macao and hazard in Mr. Fox's time. Yes, my dear father often told me that they sat up always until nine o'clock the next morning with Mr. Fox at Brookes's, whom I remember at Drummington, when I was a little girl, in a buff waistcoat and black satin small-clothes. My brother Erith never played as a young man, nor sat up late — he had no health for it; but my boy must do as everybody does, you know. Yes, and then he often goes to a place called the Back Kitchen, frequented by all the wits and authors, you know, whom one does not see in society, but whom it is a great privilege and pleasure for Harry to meet, and there he hears the questions of the day discussed; and my dear father often said that it was our duty to encourage literature, and he had hoped to see the late Dr. Johnson at Drummington, only Dr. Johnson died. Yes, and Mr. Sheridan came over, and drank a great deal of wine — every. body drank a great deal of wine in those days —and papa's wine-merchant's bill was ten times as much as Erith's is, who gets it as he wants it from Fortnum and Mason's, and does n’t keep any stock at all.” “That was an uncommon good dinner we had yesterday, Ma'am,” the artful Harry broke out. “Their clear soup's better than ours, Moufflet will put too much tarragon into everything. The suprême de volaille was very good — uncommon, and the sweets were better than Moufflet's sweets. Did you taste the plombière, Ma'am, and the maraschino jelly 7 Stunningly good that maraschino jelly!” Lady Agnes expressed her agreement in these, as in almost all other sentiments of her son, who continued the artful conversation, saying, — “Very handsome house that of the Claverings. Furniture, I should say, got up regardless of expense. Magnificent display of plate, Ma'am.” The lady assented to all these propositions. “Very nice people the Claverings.” “Hm!” said Lady Agnes. “I know what you mean. Lady C. ain't distangy exactly, but she is very good-natured.” “O, very 1” Mamma said, who was herself one of the most good-natured of women. “And Sir Francis, he don't talk much before ladies; but after dinner he comes out uncommon strong, Ma'am —a highly agreeable well-informed man. When will you ask them to dinner ? Look out for an early day, Ma'am; ” and looking into Lady Agnes's pocket-book, he chose a day only a fortnight hence (an age that fortnight seemed to the young gentleman), when the Claverings were to be invited to Grosvenor Street. The obedient Lady Agnes wrote the required invitation. She was accustomed to do so without consulting her husband, who had his own society and habits, and who left his wife to see her own friends alone. Harry looked at the card: but there was an omission in the invitation which did not please him. “You have not asked Miss What-d'-ye-call-umMiss Emery, Lady Clavering's daughter.”

vol. x. — 14

“O that little creature!” Lady Agnes cried. “No, I think not, Harry.” “We must ask Miss Amory,” Foker said. “I–I want to ask Pendennis; and—and he's very sweet upon her. Don't you think she sings very well, Ma'am 2 27 “I thought her rather forward, and didn't listen to her singing. She only sang at you and Mr. Pendennis, it seemed to me. But I will ask her if you wish, Harry,” and so Miss Amory's name was written on the card with her mother's. This piece of diplomacy being triumphantly executed, Harry embraced his fond parent with the utmost affection, and retired to his own apartments, where he stretched himself on his ottoman, and lay brooding silently, sighing for the day which was to bring the fair Miss Amory under his paternal roof, and devising a hundred wild schemes for meeting her. On his return from making the grand tour, Mr. Foker, junior, had brought with him a polyglot valet, who took the place of Stoopid, and condescended to wait at dinner, attired in shirt-fronts of worked muslin, with many gold studs and chains. This man, who was of no particular country, and spoke all languages indifferently ill, made himself useful to Mr. Harry in a variety of ways—read all the artless youth's correspondence, knew his favorite haunts and the addresses of his acquaintance, and officiated at the private dinners which the young gentleman gave. As Harry lay upon his sofa after his interview with his mamma, robed in a wonderful dressing-gown, and puffing his pipe in gloomy silence, Anatole, too, must have remarked that something affected his master's spirits; though he did not betray any ill-bred sympathy with

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