“And so, Damon,” said he, “you go nowhere, see nothing, and know nobody.  This sort of life will never do for you!  I must take you out—­introduce you—­get you an entree into society, before I leave Paris.”

“I should be heartily glad to visit at one or two private houses,” I replied.  “To spend the winter in this place without knowing a soul, would be something frightful.”

Dalrymple looked at me half laughingly, half compassionately.

“Before I do it, however,” said he, “you must look a little less like a savage, and more like a tame Christian.  You must have your hair cut, and learn to tie your cravat properly.  Do you possess an evening suit?”

Blushing to the tips of my ears, I not only confessed that I was destitute of that desirable outfit, but also that I had never yet in all my life had occasion to wear it.

“I am glad of it; for now you are sure to be well fitted.  Your tailor, depend on it, is your great civilizer, and a well-made suit of clothes is in itself a liberal education.  I’ll take you to Michaud—­my own especial purveyor.  He is a great artist.  With so many yards of superfine black cloth, he will give you the tone of good society and the exterior of a gentleman.  In short, he will do for you in eight or ten hours more than I could do in as many years.”

“Pray introduce me at once to this illustrious man,” I exclaimed laughingly, “and let me do him homage!”

“You will have to pay heavily for the honor,” said Dalrymple.  “Of that I give you notice.”

“No matter.  I am willing to pay heavily for the tone of good society and the exterior of a gentleman.”

“Very good.  Take a book, then, or a cigar, and amuse yourself for five minutes while I write a note.  That done, you may command me for as long as you please.”

I took the first book that came, and finding it to be a history of the horse, amused myself, instead, by observing the aspect of Dalrymple’s apartment.

Rooms are eloquent biographies.  They betray at once if the owner be careless or orderly, studious or idle, vulgar or refined.  Flowers on the table, engravings on the walls, indicate refinement and taste; while a well-filled book-case says more in favor of its possessor than the most elaborate letter of recommendation.  Dalrymple’s room was a monograph of himself.  Careless, luxurious, disorderly, crammed with all sorts of costly things, and characterized by a sort of reckless elegance, it expressed, as I interpreted it, the very history of the man.  Rich hangings; luxurious carpets; walls covered with paintings; cabinets of bronze and rare porcelain; a statuette of Rachel beside a bust of Homer; a book-case full of French novels with a sprinkling of Shakespeare and Horace; a stand of foreign arms; a lamp from Pompeii; a silver casket full of cigars; tables piled up with newspapers, letters, pipes, riding-whips, faded bouquets, and all kinds