on each of her plump white fingers. Her cheeks were as pink as the
finest Chinese rouge could make them. Pog knew the article: he
travelled in it. Her lips were as red as the ruby lip salve: she
used the very best, that was clear.

She was a fine-looking woman, certainly (holding down her eyes, and
talking perpetually of "mes trente-deux ans"); and Pogson, the
wicked young dog, who professed not to care for young misses,
saying they smelt so of bread-and-butter, declared, at once, that
the lady was one of HIS beauties; in fact, when he spoke to us
about her, he said, "She's a slap-up thing, I tell you; a reg'lar
good one; ONE OF MY SORT!" And such was Pogson's credit in all
commercial rooms, that one of HIS sort was considered to surpass
all other sorts.

During dinner-time, Mr. Pogson was profoundly polite and attentive
to the lady at his side, and kindly communicated to her, as is the
way with the best-bred English on their first arrival "on the
Continent," all his impressions regarding the sights and persons he
had seen. Such remarks having been made during half an hour's
ramble about the ramparts and town, and in the course of a walk
down to the custom-house, and a confidential communication with the
commissionaire, must be, doubtless, very valuable to Frenchmen in
their own country; and the lady listened to Pogson's opinions: not
only with benevolent attention, but actually, she said, with
pleasure and delight. Mr. Pogson said that there was no such thing
as good meat in France, and that's why they cooked their victuals
in this queer way; he had seen many soldiers parading about the
place, and expressed a true Englishman's abhorrence of an armed
force; not that he feared such fellows as these--little whipper-