Reglar every evening there came to the “Constantanople” a young gent etired in the igth of fashn; and indead presenting by the cleanlyness of his appearants and linning (which was generally a pink or blew shurt, with a cricketer or a dansuse pattern) rather a contrast to the dinjy and whistkcard sosaity of the Diwann.  As for wiskars, this young mann had none beyond a little yallow tought to his chin, which you woodn notas, only he was always pulling at it.  His statue was diminnative, but his coschume supubb, for he had the tippiest Jane boots, the ivoryheadest canes, the most gawjus scarlick Jonville ties, and the most Scotch-plaidest trowseys, of any customer of that establishment.  He was univusaly called Milord.

“Que est ce jeune seigneur?  Who is this young hurl who comes knightly to the ‘Constantanople,’ who is so proddigl of his gold (for indeed the young gent would frequinly propoase gininwater to the company), and who drinks so much gin?” asked Munseer Chacabac of a friend from the “Hotel de l’Ail.”

“His name is Lord Yardham,” answered that friend.  “He never comes here but at night—­and why?”

“Y?” igsclaimed Jools, istonisht.

“Why? because he is engaygd all day—­and do you know where he is engaygd all day?”

“Where?” asked Jools.

“At the Foring Office—­now do you begin to understand?”—­Jools trembled.

He speaks of his uncle, the head of that office.—­“Who is the head of that offis?—­Palmerston.”

“The nephew of Palmerston!” said Jools, almost in a fit.

“Lor Yardham pretends not to speak French,” the other went on.  “He pretends he can only say wee and commong porty voo.  Shallow humbug!—­I have marked him during our conversations.—­When we have spoken of the glory of France among the nations, I have seen his eye kindle, and his perfidious lip curl with rage.  When they have discussed before him, the Imprudents! the affairs of Europe, and Raggybritchovich has shown us the next Circassian Campaign, or Sapousne has laid hare the plan of the Calabrian patriots for the next insurrection, I have marked this stranger—­this Lor Yardham.  He smokes, ’tis to conceal his countenance; he drinks gin, ’tis to hide his face in the goblet.  And be sure, he carries every word of our conversation to the perfidious Palmerston, his uncle.”

“I will beard him in his den,” thought Jools.  “I will meet him corps-a-corps—­the tyrant of Europe shall suffer through his nephew, and I will shoot him as dead as Dujarrier.”

When Lor Yardham came to the “Constantanople” that night, Jools i’d him savidgely from edd to foot, while Lord Yardham replied the same.  It wasn’t much for either to do—­neyther being more than 4 foot ten hi—­Jools was a grannydear in his company of the Nashnal Gard, and was as brayv as a lion.

“Ah, l’Angleterre, l’Angleterre, tu nous dois une revanche,” said Jools, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth at Lord Yardham.