However, dreams often conclude abruptly, and two louis always do, as I found, several days later, when, after paying the rent for my unspeakable lodging and lending twenty francs to a poor, bad painter, whom I knew and whose wife was ill, I found myself with the choice of obtaining funds on my finery or not eating, either of which I was very loath to do.  It is not essential for me to tell any person that when you seek a position it is better that you appear not too greatly in need of it; and my former garments had prejudiced many against me, I fear, because they had been patched by a friendly concierge.  Pantaloons suffer as terribly as do antiques from too obvious restorations; and while I was only grateful to the good woman’s needle (except upon one occasion when she forgot to remove it), my costume had reached, at last, great sympathies for the shade of Praxiteles, feeling the same melancholy over original intentions so far misrepresented by renewals.

Therefore I determined to preserve my fineries to the uttermost; and it was fortunate that I did so; because, after dining, for three nights upon nothing but looking out of my window, the fourth morning brought me a letter from my English friend.  I had written to him, asking if he knew of any people who wished to pay a salary to a young man who knew how to do nothing.  I place his reply in direct annexation: 

“Henrietta Street, Cavendish Square, May 14.

“My dear Ansolini,—­Why haven’t you made some of your relatives do something?  I understand that they do not like you; neither do my own, but after our crupper at Monte Carlo what could mine do, except provide?  If a few pounds (precious few, I fear!) be of any service to you, let me know.  In the mean time, if you are serious about a position, I may, preposterously enough, set you in the way of it.  There is an old thundering Yankee here, whom I met in the States, and who believed me a god because I am the nephew of my awful uncle, for whose career he has ever had, it appears, a life-long admiration, sir!  Now, by chance, meeting this person in the street, it developed that he had need of a man, precisely such a one as you are not:  a sober, tutorish, middle-aged, dissenting parson, to trot about the Continent tied to a dancing bear.  It is the old gentleman’s cub, who is a species of Caliban in fine linen, and who has taken a few too many liberties in the land of the free.  In fact, I believe he is much a youth of my own kind with similar admiration for baccarat and good cellars.  His father must return at once, and has decided (the cub’s native heath and friends being too wild) to leave him in charge of a proper guide, philosopher, courier, chaplain, and friend, if such can be found, the same required to travel with the cub and keep him out of mischief.  I thought of your letter directly, and I have given you the most tremendous recommendation—­part of it quite true, I suspect, though I am not a judge of learning.  I explained, however, that you are