“Sir,” said Mr. Brimberly ponderously, “what ‘’e’ might you be pleased to mean?”

“I was merely allooding to—­to your governor, sir.”

Mr. Brimberly glanced at his guest, set down the glass he was in the act of filling and—­pulled down his waistcoat for the second time.

“Sir,” said he, and his cherubic whiskers seemed positively to quiver, “I presoom—­I say, I presoom you are referring to—­Young Har?”

“I meant Mr. Ravenslee.”

“Then may I beg that you’ll allood to him ’enceforth as Young Har?  This is Young Har’s own room, sir.  These is Young Har’s own picters, sir.  When Young Har is absent, I generally sit ’ere with me cigar and observe said picters.  I’m fond of hart, sir; I find hart soothing and restful.  The picters surrounding of you are all painted by Young Har’s very own ‘and—­subjeks various.  Number one—­a windmill very much out o’ repair, but that’s hart, sir.  Number two—­a lady dressed in what I might term dish-a-bell, sir, and there isn’t much of it, but that’s hart again.  Number three—­a sunset.  Number four—­moonlight; ’e didn’t get the moon in the picter but the light’s there and that’s the great thing—­effect, sir, effect!  Of course, being only studies, they don’t look finished—­which is the most hartisticest part about ’em!  But, lord!  Young Har never finishes anything—­too tired!  ’Ang me, sir, if I don’t think ’e were born tired!  But then, ’oo ever knew a haristocrat as wasn’t?”

“But,” demurred Mr. Stevens, staring down into his empty glass, “I thought ’e was a American, your—­Young Har?”

“Why, ’e is and ’e ain’t, sir.  His father was only a American, I’ll confess, but his mother was blue blood, every drop guaranteed, sir, and as truly English as—­as I am!”

“And is ’e the Mr. Ravenslee as is the sportsman?  Goes in for boxing, don’t ’e?  Very much fancied as a heavyweight, ain’t ’e?  My governor’s seen him box and says ’e’s a perfect snorter, by Jove!”

Mr. Brimberly sighed, and soothed a slightly agitated whisker.

“Why, yes,” he admitted, “I’m afraid ’e does box—­but only as a ammitoor, Mr. Stevens, strickly as a ammitoor, understand!”

“And he’s out making a night of it, is ’e?” enquired Mr. Stevens, leaning back luxuriously and stretching his legs.  “Bit of a rip, ain’t ’e?”

“A—­wot, sir?” enquired Mr. Brimberly with raised brows.

“Well, very wild, ain’t he—­drinks, gambles, and hetceteras, don’t he?”

“Why, as to that, sir,” answered Mr. Brimberly, dexterously performing on the syphon, “I should answer you, drink ’e may, gamble ’e do, hetceteras I won’t answer for, ’im being the very hacme of respectability though ’e is a millionaire and young.”

“And when might you expect ’im back?”

“Why, there’s no telling, Mr. Stevens.”

“Eh?” exclaimed Mr. Stevens, and sat up very suddenly.

“’Is movements, sir, is quite—­ah—­quite metehoric!”