They made way for Mr. Fox at the head of the table, and he took the seat
as though it were his right.

"This is Mr. Richard Carvel, gentlemen, of Carvel Hall, in Maryland."

They stirred with interest when my name was called, and most of them
turned in their chairs to look at me. I knew well the reason, and felt
my face grow hot. Although you may read much of the courtesy of that
age, there was a deal of brutal frankness among young men of fashion.

"Egad, Charles, is this he the Beauty rescued from Castle Yard?"

A familiar voice relieved my embarrassment.

"Give the devil his due, Bully. You forget that I had a hand in that."

"Faith, Jack Comyn," retorted the gentleman addressed, "you're already
famous for clinging to her skirt."

"But cling to mine, Bully, and we'll all enter the temple together. But
I bid you welcome, Richard," said his Lordship; "you come with two of the
most delightful vagabonds in the world."

Mr. Fox introduced me in succession to Colonel St. John, known in St.
James's Street as the Baptist; to my Lord Bolingbroke, Colonel St. John's
brother, who was more familiarly called Bully; to Mr. Fitzpatrick's
brother, the Earl of Upper Ossory, who had come up to London, so he said,
to see a little Italian dance at the Garden; to Gilly Williams; to Sir
Charles Bunbury, who had married Lady Sarah Lennox, Fox's cousin, the
beauty who had come so near to being queen of all England; to Mr. Storer,