“You paid in gold,” said she; “I suppose you had no bank notes about you?”

“Yes, my lady, I have notes for fifty and a hundred pounds.”

“Then you must change one of them or wait till another time to play, for in England to pay in gold is a solecism only pardonable in a stranger.  Perhaps you noticed that the lady smiled?”

“Yes; who is she?”

“Lady Coventry, sister of the Duchess of Hamilton.”

“Ought I to apologize?”

“Not at all, the offence is not one of those which require an apology.  She must have been more surprised than offended, for she made fifteen shillings by your paying her in gold.”

I was vexed by this small mischance, for Lady Coventry was an exquisitely beautiful brunette.  I comforted myself, however, without much trouble.

The same day I made the acquaintance of Lord Hervey, the nobleman who conquered Havana, a pleasant an intelligent person.  He had married Miss Chudleigh, but the marriage was annulled.  This celebrated Miss Chudleigh was maid of honour to the Princess Dowager of Wales, and afterwards became Duchess of Kingston.  As her history is well known I shall say something more of her in due course.  I went home well enough pleased with my day’s work.

The next day I began dining at home, and found my cook very satisfactory; for, besides the usual English dishes, he was acquainted with the French system of cooking, and did fricandeaus, cutlets, ragouts, and above all, the excellent French soup, which is one of the principal glories of France.

My table and my house were not enough for my happiness.  I was alone, and the reader will understand by this that Nature had not meant me for a hermit.  I had neither a mistress nor a friend, and at London one may invite a man to dinner at a tavern where he pays for himself, but not to one’s own table.  One day I was invited by a younger son of the Duke of Bedford to eat oysters and drink a bottle of champagne.  I accepted the invitation, and he ordered the oysters and the champagne, but we drank two bottles, and he made me pay half the price of the second bottle.  Such are manners on the other side of the Channel.  People laughed in my face when I said that I did not care to dine at a tavern as I could not get any soup.

“Are you ill?” they said, “soup is only fit for invalids.”

The Englishman is entirely carnivorous.  He eats very little bread, and calls himself economical because he spares himself the expense of soup and dessert, which circumstance made me remark that an English dinner is like eternity:  it has no beginning and no end.  Soup is considered very extravagant, as the very servants refuse to eat the meat from which it has been made.  They say it is only fit to give to dogs.  The salt beef which they use is certainly excellent.  I cannot say the same for their beer, which was so bitter that I could not drink it.  However, I could not be expected to like beer after the excellent French wines with which the wine merchant supplied me, certainly at a very heavy cost.