"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.