our friend Horry Walpole is right in defending him, despite Davie Hume.
I vow I shall like you, Mr. Carvel."

I replied that I certainly hoped so.

"Egad, you come well enough recommended," he said, pulling on his
breeches. "No, Eiffel, cursed if I go en petit maitre to-day. How does
that strike you for a demi saison, Mr. Buckskin? I wore three of 'em
through the customs last year, and March's worked olive nightgown tucked
under my greatcoat, and near a dozen pairs of shirts and stockings. And
each of my servants had on near as much. O Lud, we were amazing-like
beef-eaters or blower pigeons. Sorry you won't meet my brother,--he that
will have the title. He's out of town."

Going on in this discursory haphazard way while he dressed, he made me
feel much at home. For the young dictator--so Mr. Fitzpatrick informed
me afterward--either took to you or else he did not, and stood upon no
ceremony. After he had chosen a coat with a small pattern and his feet
had been thrust into the little red shoes with the high heels, imported
by him from France, he sent for a hackney-chaise. And the three of us
drove together to Pall Mall. Mr. Brooks was at the door, and bowed from
his hips as we entered.

"A dozen vin de Graves, Brooks!" cries Mr. Fox, and ushers me into a
dining room, with high curtained windows and painted ceiling, and
chandeliers throwing a glitter of light. There, at a long table,
surrounded by powdered lackeys, sat a bevy of wits, mostly in blue and
silver, with point ruffles, to match Mr. Fox's costume. They greeted my
companions uproariously. It was "Here's Charles at last!" "Howdy,
Charles!" "Hello, Richard!" and "What have you there? a new Caribbee?"