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“Slap up,” said Fo. “I tell you what, Poyntz, she sings like a-what-d'-ye-call-um—you know what I mean—like a mermaid, you know, but that’s not their name.” “I never heard a mermaid sing,” Mr. Poyntz, the wag replied. “Who ever heard a mermaid? Eales, you are an old fellow, did you?” “Don’t make a lark of me, hang it, Poyntz,” said Foker, turning red, and with tears almost in his eyes; “you know what I mean: it’s those what's-hisnames—in Homer, you know. I never said I was a good scholar.” “And nobody ever said it of you, my boy,” Mr. Poyntz remarked; and Foker, striking spurs into his pony, cantered away down Rotten Row, his mind agitated with various emotions, ambitions, mortifications. He was sorry that he had not been good at his books in early life, that he might have cut out all those chaps who were about her, and who talked the languages, and wrote poetry, and painted pictures in her album, and — and that. — “What am I,” thought little Foker, “compared to her ? She's all soul, she is, and can write poetry or compose music, as easy as I could drink a glass of beer. Beer’ – damme, that's all I'm fit for, is beer. I am a poor, ignorant little beggar, good for nothing but Foker's Entire. I misspent my youth, and used to get the chaps to do my exercises. And what’s the consequences now 7 O, Harry Foker, what a confounded little fool you have been l’” As he made this dreary soliloquy, he had cantered out of Rotten Row into the Park, and there was on the point of riding down a large old roomy family carriage, of which he took no heed, when a cheery voice cried out, “Harry, Harry!” and looking up, he beheld his aunt, the Lady Rosherville, and two of her daughters, of whom the one who spoke was Harry's betrothed, the Lady Ann. He started back with a pale scared look, as a truth, about which he had not thought during the whole day, came across him. There was his fate, there, in the back seat of that carriage “What is the matter, Harry 7 why are you so pale 2 You have been raking and smoking too much, you wicked boy,” said Lady Ann. Foker said, “How do, Aunt,” “How do, Ann,” in a perturbed manner — muttered something about a pressing engagement, — indeed he saw by the Park clock that he must have been keeping his party in the drag waiting for nearly an hour—and waved a good-by. The little man and the little pony were out of sight in an instant — the great carriage rolled away. Nobody inside was very much interested about his coming or going; the Countess being occupied with her spaniel, the Lady Lucy's thoughts and eyes being turned upon a volume of sermons, and those of Lady Ann upon a new novel, which the sisters had just procured from the library.



Poor Foker found the dinner at Richmond to be the most dreary entertainment upon which ever mortal man wasted his guineas. “I wonder how the deuce I could ever have liked these people,” he thought in his own mind. “Why, I can see the crow's-feet under Rougemont's eyes, and the paint on her cheeks is laid on as thick as Clown's in a pantomime ! The way in which that Pinckney talks slang, is quite disgusting. I hate chaff in a woman. And old Colchicum ! that old Col, coming down here in his brongham, with his coronet on it, and sitting bodkin between Mademoiselle Coralie and her mother! It's too bad. An English peer, and a horse-rider of Franconi's 1–It won't do; by Jove, it won't do. I ain't proud; but it will not do 1"

“Twopence-halfpenny for your thoughts, Fokey!” cried out Miss Rougemont, taking her cigar from her truly vermilion lips, as she beheld the young fellow lost in thought, seated at the head of his table, amidst melting ices, and cut pine-apples, and bottles full and empty, and cigar-ashes scattered on fruit, and the ruins of a dessert which had no pleasure for him.

“Does Foker ever think?” drawled out Mr. Poyntz. “Foker, here is a considerable sum of money offered by a fair capitalist at this end of the table for the present emanations of your valuable and acute intellect, old boy!”


ton in the drag that night; but he was quite thoughtful and gloomy during the whole of the little journey from Richmond; neither listening to the jokes of the friends behind him and on the box by his side, nor enlivening them, as was his wont, by his own facetious sallies. And when the ladies whom he had conveyed alighted at the door of their house, and asked their accomplished coachman whether he would not step in and take something to drink, he declined with so melancholy an air, that they supposed that the Governor and he had had a difference, or that some calamity had befallen him: and he did not tell these people what the cause of his grief was, but left Mesdames Rougemont and Pinckney, unheeding the cries of the latter, who hung over her balcony like Jezebel, and called out to him to ask him to give another party SOOil. He sent the drag home under the guidance of one of the grooms, and went on foot himself; his hands in his pockets, plunged in thought. The stars and moon, shining tranquilly overhead, looked down upon Mr. Foker that night, as he in his turn sentimentally regarded them. And he went and gazed upwards at the house in Grosvenor Place, and at the windows which he supposed to be those of the beloved object; and he moaned and he sighed in a way piteous and surprising to witness, which Policeman X did, who informed Sir Francis Clavering's people, as they took the refreshment of beer on the coach-box at the neighboring public-house, after bringing home their lady from the French play, that there had been another chap hanging about the premises that evening — a little chap dressed like a swell. And now, with that perspicuity and ingenuity and enterprise which only belongs to a certain passion,

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