“Certainly.”

“I hope not.”

“Hope if you like; but you’ll find I’m right.”

“I trust I didn’t hurt you much.”

“Not very.  Bless you, I’m pretty well used to ill-treatment now.  You’ve only rubbed the pile of my collar the wrong way, just as that awkward black rascal would brush me.”

“Bless me!  I think I know your voice.”

“Somehow, I think I know yours.”

“You ain’t Colonel Tomkins, are you?”

“No.”

“Nor Count Castor?”

“No.”

“Then I’m in error.”

“No you’re not.  I was the Colonel once; then I became the Count by way of loan; and then I came here—­as he said by mistake.”

“Why, my dear fellow, I’m delighted to speak to you.  How did you wear?”

“So-so.”

“When I first saw you, I thought you the handsomest Petersham in town.  Your velvet collar, cuffs, and side-pockets, were superb; and when you were the Colonel, upon my life you were the sweetest cut thing about the waist and tails I ever walked with.”

“You flatter me.”

“Upon my honour, no.”

“Well, I can return the compliment; for a blue, with chased buttons and silk lining, you beat anything I ever had the honour of meeting.  But I suppose, as you are here, you are not the Cornet now?”

“Alas! no.”

“May I ask why?”

“Certainly.  His scoundrel of a valet disgraced his master’s cloth and me at the same time.  The villain went to the Lowther Arcade—­took me with him by force.  Fancy my agony; literally accessory to handing ices to milliners’ apprentices and staymakers; and when the wretch commenced quadrilling it, he dos-a-dos’d me up against a fat soap-boiler’s wife, in filthy three-turned-and-dyed common satin.”

“Scoundrel!”

“Rascal!  But he was discovered—­he reeled home drunk. I, that is, as it’s known, we make the men.  The Cornet saw him, and thrashed him soundly with a three-foot Crowther.”

“That must have been delightful to your feelings.”

“Not very.”

“Why not? revenge is sweet.”

“So it is; but as the Cornet forgot to order him to take me off, I got the worst of the drubbing.  I was dreadfully cut about.  Two buttons fearfully lacerated—­nothing but the shanks left.”

“How did it end?”

“The valet mentioned something about wages and assault warrants, so I was given to him to make the matter up.  Between you and I, the Cornet was very hard up.”

“Indeed!”

“Certain of it.  You remember the French-grey trousers we used to walk out with—­those he strapped so tight over the remarkably chatty and pleasant French-polished boots whose broken English we used to admire so much?”

“Of course I do; they were the most charming greys I ever met.  They beat the plaids into fits; and the plaids were far from ungentlemanly, only they would always talk with a sham Scotch accent, and quote the ’Cotter’s Saturday Night.’”