“Next,” said Dick, handing the purl, “take a pull at that, but moderate your transports, for you’re not used to it.  Well, is it good?”

“Oh, isn’t it!” said the small servant.

Mr. Swiveller appeared immensely gratified over her enjoyment, and when she had satisfied her hunger, applied himself to teaching her the game, which she soon learned tolerably well, being both sharp-witted and cunning.

“Now,” said Mr. Swiveller, “to make it seem more real and pleasant, I shall call you the Marchioness, do you hear?”

The small servant nodded.

“Then, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, “fire away!”

The Marchioness, holding her cards very tight in both hands, considered which to play, and Mr. Swiveller, assuming the gay and fashionable air which such society required, waited for her lead.

They had played several rubbers, when the striking of ten o’clock rendered Mr. Swiveller mindful of the flight of time, and of the expediency of withdrawing before Mr. Sampson and Miss Sally Brass returned.

“With which object in view, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller gravely.  “I shall ask your ladyship’s permission to put the board in my pocket, and to retire.  The Baron Sampsono Brasso and his fair sister are, you tell me, at the Play?” added Mr. Swiveller, leaning his left arm heavily upon the table, and raising his voice and his right leg after the manner of a theatrical bandit.

The Marchioness nodded.

“Ha!” said Mr. Swiveller, with a portentous frown. “’Tis well.  Marchioness!—­but no matter.  Some wine there, ho!  Marchioness, your health.”

The small servant, who was not so well acquainted with theatrical conventionalities as Mr. Swiveller, was rather alarmed by his manner, and showed it so plainly that he felt it necessary to discharge his brigand bearing for one more suitable to private life.

“I suppose,” said Dick, “that they consult together a good deal, and talk about a great many people—­about me, for instance, sometimes, eh, Marchioness?”

The Marchioness nodded amazingly.

“Complimentary?” asked Mr. Swiveller.

The Marchioness shook her head violently.

“H’m!” Dick muttered.  “Would it be any breach of confidence, Marchioness, to relate what they say of the humble individual who has now the honor to—?”

“Miss Sally says you are a funny chap,” replied his friend.

“Well, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, “that’s not uncomplimentary.  Merriment, Marchioness, is not a bad of a degrading quality.  Old King Cole was himself a merry old soul, if we may put any faith in the pages of history.”

“But she says,” pursued his companion, “that you aren’t to be trusted.”

“Why, really, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller thoughtfully, “it’s a popular prejudice, and yet I’m sure I don’t know why, for I’ve been trusted in my time to a considerable amount, and I can safely say that I never forsook my trust, until it deserted me—­never.  Mr. Brass is of the same opinion, I suppose?”