Lord Pembroke was young, handsome, rich, and full of wit.  I went to see him one day, and found him just getting out of bed.  He said he would walk with me and told his valet to shave him.

“But,” said I, “there’s not a trace of beard on your face.”

“There never is,” said he, “I get myself shaved three times a day.”

“Three times?”

“Yes, when I change my shirt I wash my hands; when I wash my hands I have to wash my face, and the proper way to wash a man’s face is with a razor.”

“When do you make these three ablutions?”

“When I get up, when I dress for dinner, and when I go to bed, for I should not like the woman who is sleeping with me to feel my beard.”

We had a short walk together, and then I left him as I had some writing to do.  As we parted, he asked me if I dined at home.  I replied in the affirmative, and foreseeing that he intended dining with me I warned my cook to serve us well, though I did not let him know that I expected a nobleman to dinner.  Vanity has more than one string to its bow.

I had scarcely got home when Madame Binetti came in, and said that if she were not in the way, she would be glad to dine with me.  I gave her a warm welcome, and she said I was really doing her a great service, as her husband would suffer the torments of hell in trying to find out with whom she had dined.

This woman still pleased me; and though she was thirty-five, nobody would have taken her for more than twenty-five.  Her appearance was in every way pleasing.  Her lips were of the hue of the rose, disclosing two exquisite rows of teeth.  A fine complexion, splendid eyes, and a forehead where Innocence might have been well enthroned, all this made an exquisite picture.  If you add to this, that her breast was of the rarest proportions, you will understand that more fastidious tastes than mine would have been satisfied with her.

She had not been in my house for half an hour when Lord Pembroke came in.  They both uttered an exclamation, and the nobleman told me that he had been in love with her for the last six months; that he had written ardent letters to her of which she had taken no notice.

“I never would have anything to do with him,” said she, “because he is the greatest profligate in all England; and it’s a pity,” she added, “because he is a kindhearted nobleman.”

This explanation was followed by a score of kisses, and I saw that they were agreed.

We had a choice dinner in the French style, and Lord Pembroke swore he had not eaten so good a dinner for the last year.

“I am sorry for you,” he said, “when I think of you being alone every day.”

Madame Binetti was as much a gourmet as the Englishman, and when we rose from table we felt inclined to pass from the worship of Comus to that of Venus; but the lady was too experienced to give the Englishman anything more than a few trifling kisses.