His manner was so free, and yet so dignified, as to charm me completely.  For I heartily despised all that fustian trumpery of the age.  Then came a voice from beyond, calling:—­

“That you, Carvel?  Damn that fellow Eiffel, and did he thrust you into the Jerusalem Chamber?”

“The Jerusalem Chamber!” I exclaimed.

“Where I keep my Israelites,” said he; “but, by Gad’s life!  I think they are one and all descended from Job, and not father Abraham at all.  He must have thought me cursed ascetic, eh, Fitz?  Did you find the benches hard?  I had ’em made hard as the devil.  But if they were of stone, I vow the flock could find their own straw to sit on.”

“Curse it, Charles,” cut in Mr. Fitzpatrick, in some temper, “can’t you be serious for once!  He would behave this way, Mr. Carvel, if he were being shriven by the Newgate ordinary before a last carting to Tyburn.  Charles, Charles, it was Aaron again, and the dog is like to snap at last.  He is talking of bailiffs.  Take my advice and settle with him.  Hold Cavendish off another fortnight and settle with him.”

Mr. Fox’s reply was partly a laugh, and the rest of it is not to be printed.  He did not seem in the least to mind this wholesale disclosure of his somewhat awkward affairs.  And he continued to dress, or to be dressed, alternately swearing at his valet and talking to Fitzpatrick and to me.

“You are both of a name,” said he.  “Let a man but be called Richard, and I seem to take to him.  I’ faith, I like the hunchback king, and believe our friend Horry Walpole is right in defending him, despite Davie Hume.  I vow I shall like you, Mr. Carvel.”

I replied that I certainly hoped so.

“Egad, you come well enough recommended,” he said, pulling on his breeches.  “No, Eiffel, cursed if I go en petit maitre to-day.  How does that strike you for a demi saison, Mr. Buckskin?  I wore three of ’em through the customs last year, and March’s worked olive nightgown tucked under my greatcoat, and near a dozen pairs of shirts and stockings.  And each of my servants had on near as much.  O Lud, we were amazing-like beef-eaters or blower pigeons.  Sorry you won’t meet my brother,—­he that will have the title.  He’s out of town.”

Going on in this discursory haphazard way while he dressed, he made me feel much at home.  For the young dictator—­so Mr. Fitzpatrick informed me afterward—­either took to you or else he did not, and stood upon no ceremony.  After he had chosen a coat with a small pattern and his feet had been thrust into the little red shoes with the high heels, imported by him from France, he sent for a hackney-chaise.  And the three of us drove together to Pall Mall.  Mr. Brooks was at the door, and bowed from his hips as we entered.