of any pretensions to remain at home than go to London and be denied that inner sanctuary,—­the younger club at Almack’s.  Many the rich brewer’s son has embittered his life because it was not given him to see more than the front of the house from the far side of Pall Mall.  But to be taken there by Charles Fox was an honour falling to few.  I made sure that Dolly was at the bottom of it.

Promptly at four I climbed the stairs and knocked at Mr. Fox’s door.  The Swiss who opened it shook his head dubiously when I asked for his master, and said he had not been at home that day.

“But I had an appointment to meet him,” I said, thinking it very strange.

The man’s expression changed.

“An appointment, sir!  Ah, sir, then you are to step in here.”  And to my vast astonishment he admitted me into a small room at one side of the entrance.  It was bare as poverty, and furnished with benches, and nothing more.  On one of these was seated a person with an unmistakable nose and an odour of St. Giles’s, who sprang to his feet and then sat down again dejectedly.  I also sat down, wondering what it could mean, and debating whether to go or stay.

“Exguse me, your honour,” said the person, “but haf you seen Mister Fox?”

I said that I, too, was waiting for him, whereat he cast at me a cunning look beyond my comprehension.  Surely, I thought, a man of Fox’s inherited wealth and position could not be living in such a place!  Before the truth and humour of the situation had dawned upon me, I heard a ringing voice without, swearing in most forcible English, and the door was thrown open, admitting a tall young gentleman, as striking as I have ever seen.  He paid not the smallest attention to the Jew, who was bowing and muttering behind me.

“Mr. Richard Carvel?” said he, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

I bowed.

“Gad’s life, Mr. Carvel, I’m deuced sorry this should have happened.  Will you come with me?”

“Exguse me, your honour!” cried the other visitor.

“Now, what the plague, Aaron!” says he; “you wear out the stairs.  Come to-morrow, or the day after.”

“Ay, ’tis always ‘to-morrow’ with you fine gentlemen.  But I vill bring the bailiffs, so help me—­”

“Damn ’em!” says the tall young gentleman, as he slammed the door and so shut off the wail.  “Damn ’em, they worry Charles to death.  If he would only stick to quinze and picquet, and keep clear of the hounds*, he need never go near a broker.”

   ["The “hounds,” it appears, were the gentlemen of sharp practices at
   White’s and Almack’s.—­D.  C. C.]

“Do you have Jews in America, Mr. Carvel?” Without waiting for an answer, he led me through a parlour, hung with pictures, and bewilderingly furnished with French and Italian things, and Japan and China ware and bronzes, and cups and trophies.  “My name is Fitzpatrick, Mr. Carvel, —­yours to command, and Charles’s.  I am his ally for offence and defence.  We went to school together,” he explained simply.