“Major Carbonnell,” replied I, “I have seen you but two minutes, and I have taken a particular fancy to you, in which I, no doubt, have proved my discrimination.  Of course, you know that I have just returned from making a tour?”

“So I understand from his lordship’s letter.  Mr Newland, my time is at your service.  Where are you staying?”

“At the Piazza.”

“Very good; I will dine with you to-day; order some mulligatawny, they are famous for it.  After dinner we will go to the theatre.”

I was rather surprised at his cool manner of asking himself to dine with me and ordering my dinner, but a moment’s reflection made me feel what sort of person I had to deal with.

“Major, I take that as almost an affront.  You will dine with me to-day! I beg to state that you must dine with me every day that we are not invited elsewhere; and what’s more, sir, I shall be most seriously displeased, if you do not order the dinner every time that you do dine with me, and ask whoever you may think worthy of putting their legs under our table, Let’s have no doing things by halves, Major; I know you now as well as if we had been intimate for ten years.”

The Major seized me by the hand.  “My dear Newland, I only wish we had known one another ten years, as you say—­the loss has been mine; but now—­you have breakfasted, I presume?”

“Yes; having nothing to do, and not knowing a soul after my long absence, I advanced my breakfast about two hours, that I might find you at home; and now I’m at your service.”

“Say rather I am at yours.  I presume you will walk.  In ten minutes I shall be ready.  Either take up the paper, or whistle an air or two, or anything else you like, just to kill ten minutes—­and I shall be at your command.”

Chapter XXI

     I come out under a first-rate chaperon, and at once am established
     into the regions of fashion—­Prove that I am deserving of my
     promotion.

“I beg your pardon, Newland,” said the Major, returning from his dressing-room, resplendent with chains and bijouterie; “but I must have your Christian name.”

“It’s rather a strange one,” replied I; “it is Japhet.”

“Japhet! by the immortal powers, I’d bring an action against my godfathers and godmothers; you ought to recover heavy damages.”

“Then I presume you would not have the name,” replied I, with a knowing look, “for a clear ten thousand a year.”

“Whew! that alters the case—­it’s astonishing how well any name looks in large gold letters.  Well, as the old gentleman, whoever he might have been, made you compensation, you must forgive and forget.  Now where shall we go?”

“With your permission, as I came to town in these clothes, made by a German tailor—­Darmstadt’s tailor by-the-bye—­but still if tailor to a prince, not the prince of tailors—­I would wish you to take me to your own:  your dress appears very correct.”