Richard did not say this because it was true, but to show Mr. Pickwick
that the ties which bound them were friendly. On his side, Mr. Pickwick,
albeit he stood well aware how there was never a rat in the room, arose
vivaciously and went snuffling and scuffling behind curtains and beneath
sofas, and all in a mood prodigiously dire.

The room being exhaustively searched, Mr. Pickwick came and sat by
Richard, and with yelp and howl, and at intervals a little epileptic
bark, proceeded to disparage all manners and septs of rats, and spake
slightingly of all such vermin deer. Having freed his mind on the
important subject of rats, Mr. Pickwick returned to silence and his
cushion and curled up.

Matzai, the Japanese valet, brought in the breakfast--steak, potatoes,
eggs, toast, marmalade, and coffee. The deft Matzai placed the tray on
the mahogany at Richard's elbow. Richard did not like a multiplicity of
personal attendants. Of the score of souls within the walls of that
house, Richard would meet only Mr. Gwynn and Matzai. This was as the
wisdom of Solomon, since neglect is born of numbers.

Mr. Lorimer Gwynn was a personage--clean and tall and slim and solemn
and sixty years of age. He was as wholly English as Mr. Pickwick was
wholly Skye, and exuded an indomitable respectability from his formal,
shaven face. Rumor had it that Mr. Gwynn was fabulously rich.

It was in June when Mr. Gwynn came to town and leased the house just
vacated by Baron Trenk, late head of the Austrian diplomatic corps. This
leasing of itself half established Mr. Gwynn in a highest local esteem;
his being English did the rest, since in the Capital of America it is
better, socially, to come from anywhere rather than from home. In