perfectly unconscious of any thing extraordinary, felt himself the admired of all admirers,—­very little, it is true, to his own satisfaction.  After some few minutes exposure to these eclats de rire, he succeeded in depositing the source of his griefs within the fender, and once more retired to his sanctuary,—­having registered a vow, which, should I speak it, would forfeit his every claim to gallantry for ever.

Whether in the vow aforesaid Mr. Cudmore had only been engaged in that species of tesselating which furnishes the pavement so celebrated in the lower regions, I know not; but true it is, that he retired that night to his chamber very much discomfited at his debut in the great world, and half disposed to believe that nature had neither intended him for a Brummel nor a D’Orsay.  While he was ruminating on such matters, he was joined by O’Flaherty, with whom he had been always more intimate than any other inmate of the house—­Tom’s tact having entirely concealed what the manners of the others too plainly evinced, the perfect appreciation of the student’s oddity and singularity.  After some few observations on general matters, O’Flaherty began with a tone of some seriousness to express towards Cudmore the warm interest he had ever taken in him, since his first coming among them; his great anxiety for his welfare, and his firm resolve that no chance or casual inattention to mere ceremonial observances on his part should ever be seized on by the other guests as a ground for detraction or an excuse for ridicule of him.

“Rely upon it, my dear boy,” said he, “I have watched over you like a parent; and having partly foreseen that something like this affair of to-night would take place sooner or later”—­

“What affair?” said Cudmore—­his eyes staring half out of his head.

“That business of the kettle.”

“Kett—­el.  The kettle!  What of that?” said Cudmore.

“What of it?  Why, if you don’t feel it, I am sure it is not my duty to remind you; only”—­

“Feel it—­oh, yes.  I saw them laughing, because I spilled the water over old Mrs. Jones, or something of that sort.”

“No, no, my dear young friend, they were not laughing at that—­their mirth had another object.”

“What the devil was it at, then?”

“You don’t know, don’t you?”

“No; I really do not.”

“Nor can’t guess—­eh?”

“Confound me if I can.”

“Well.  I see, Mr. Cudmore, you are really too innocent for these people.  But come—­it shall never be said that youth and inexperience ever suffered from the unworthy ridicule and cold sarcasm of the base world, while Tom O’Flaherty stood by a spectator.

“Sir,” said Tom, striking his hand with energy on the table, and darting a look of fiery indignation from his eye, “Sir, you were this night trepanned—­yes, sir, vilely, shamefully trepanned—­I repeat the expression—­into the performance of a menial office—­an office so degrading, so offensive, so unbecoming the rank, the station, and the habits of gentlemen, my very blood recoils when I only think of the indignity.”