Harley thanked him for his information, and was turning from the door, when the other observed that it would be proper to leave his name, and very obligingly knocked for that purpose.

“Here is a gentleman, Tom, who meant to have waited on your master.”

“Your name, if you please, sir?”

“Harley.”

“You’ll remember, Tom, Harley.”

The door was shut.  “Since we are here,” said he, “we shall not lose our walk if we add a little to it by a turn or two in Hyde Park.”

He accompanied this proposal with a second bow, and Harley accepted of it by another in return.

The conversation, as they walked, was brilliant on the side of his companion.  The playhouse, the opera, with every occurrence in high life, he seemed perfectly master of; and talked of some reigning beauties of quality in a manner the most feeling in the world.  Harley admired the happiness of his vivacity, and, opposite as it was to the reserve of his own nature, began to be much pleased with its effects.

Though I am not of opinion with some wise men, that the existence of objects depends on idea, yet I am convinced that their appearance is not a little influenced by it.  The optics of some minds are in so unlucky a perspective as to throw a certain shade on every picture that is presented to them, while those of others (of which number was Harley), like the mirrors of the ladies, have a wonderful effect in bettering their complexions.  Through such a medium perhaps he was looking on his present companion.

When they had finished their walk, and were returning by the corner of the Park, they observed a board hung out of a window signifying, “An excellent Ordinary on Saturdays and Sundays.”  It happened to be Saturday, and the table was covered for the purpose.

“What if we should go in and dine here, if you happen not to be engaged, sir?” said the young gentleman.  “It is not impossible but we shall meet with some original or other; it is a sort of humour I like hugely.”

Harley made no objection, and the stranger showed him the way into the parlour.

He was placed, by the courtesy of his introductor, in an arm-chair that stood at one side of the fire.  Over against him was seated a man of a grave considering aspect, with that look of sober prudence which indicates what is commonly called a warm man.  He wore a pretty large wig, which had once been white, but was now of a brownish yellow; his coat was one of those modest-coloured drabs which mock the injuries of dust and dirt; two jack-boots concealed, in part, the well-mended knees of an old pair of buckskin breeches; while the spotted handkerchief round his neck preserved at once its owner from catching cold and his neck-cloth from being dirtied.  Next him sat another man, with a tankard in his hand and a quid of tobacco in his cheek, whose eye was rather more vivacious, and whose dress was something smarter.