“You have a merry party concealed there, Master Host,” said I.

“Ye-ye-s-Sir, very,” replied he, and tittered again, as though he were galvanizing his defunct merriment.

“Quite exclusive?”

“Quite, Sir, un-unless you are introduced—­Oh dear!” and having mixed a small tumbler of toddy, he disappeared into that inner region of smoke from which I was separated by the black door endorsed “Parlour.”

I had determined to seek elsewhere for a more social party, when the thumping of tables and gingle of glasses induced me to abide the issue.  After a momentary pause, a firm and not unmusical voice was heard, pealing forth the words of a song which I had written when a boy, and had procured insertion for in a country newspaper.  At the conclusion the thumping was repeated, and the waiter having given another of his stenographical orders, I could not resist desiring him to inform the vocal gentleman that I craved a few words with him.

“Yes-Sir—­don’t-think-’ll come—­’cos he-’s-in-a-corner.”

“Perhaps you will try the experiment,” said I.

“Certainly-Sir-two-gins-please-ma’am.”  And having been supplied with the required beverage, he also made his exit in fumo.

In a few minutes a man of about fifty made his appearance; his face indicated the absence of vulgarity, though a few purply tints delicately hinted that he had assisted at many an orgie of the rosy offspring of Jupiter and Semele.  His dark vestments and white cravat induced me to set him down as a “professional gentleman”—­nor was I far wrong in my conjecture.  As I shall have, I trust, frequent occasion to speak of him, I will for the sake of convenience, designate him Mr. Bonus.

I briefly stated my reason for disturbing him—­that as he had honoured my muse by forming so intimate an acquaintance with her, I was anxious to trespass on his politeness to introduce me into that room which had now become a sort of “Blue-beard blue-chamber” to my thirsty curiosity.  Having handed him my card, he readily complied, and in another minute I was an inhabitant of an elysium of sociality and tobacco-smoke.

“Faugh!” cries Aunt Charlotte Amelia, whilst pretty little Cousin Emmeline turns up her round hazel eyes and ejaculates, “Tobacco-smoke! horrid!”

Ladies! you treat with scorn that which God hath given as a blessing!  It has never been your lot to thread the streets of mighty London, when the first springs of her untiring commerce are set in motion.  Long, dear aunt, before thy venerable nose peeps from beneath the quilted coverlid to scent an atmosphere made odorous by cosmetics—­long, dear Emmeline, ere those bright orbs that one day will fire the hearts of thousands are unclosed, the artizan has blessed his sleeping children, and closed the door upon his household gods.  The murky fog, the drizzling shower, welcome him back to toil.  Labour runs before