gaming- room. I daresay, M. D——, the
superintendent, finds it suits his lungs
better than the most bracing mountain
atmosphere, and I suppose goes to Baden
or Spa lor his holiday. However, here I
see the whole garden lit up with these
trumpery illuminated gas arches and stars,
and meagre hearts, and such things, and
the crowd amused and delighted like children,
as they are. Qu'il est beau! Vraiment
c'est magnifique! and how generous and
liberal this administration! All for nothing;
says old paterfamilias—the same who
sits on the Times, while he reads the Daily
News, and little dreams that his eldest,
Charles, has already paid this generous
board some five-and-twenty napoleons "on
the red," which alone would defray the
cost of several of these festivities. But
when the band begins the last galop with
éclat, and animation, and some half a dozen
cheap Bengal lights are stuck in the trees.
poor innocent trees! and made to fizz and
blaze, then the enthusiasm bursts out; a
perfect roar of childish delight rises, and
we hear again how " beau," how " magnifique,"
this conduct is on the part of the
administration. I am far from joining in
these praises; I think them shabby and
contemptible to a degree, with their few
jets of gas, and their newspapers, and their
chairs, for which nearly every one has to
pay more or less handsomely. Nay, I have
discovered that there is not a young girl,
the most blushing, blooming, and innocent,
who comes here, that does not coax papa
for three florins or so, "just to try my
luck, my dear," and which is swept into
the hands of these monsters. Now, even
Thomas, the valet, and poor Cox, the
ladies' maid, they have stolen up and contributed
their two hard earned gulden. Ah,
M. D—— , with the pinched nose and the
drum-tight skin, decent and respectable as
you are, gérant en chef of the company,
or what you call yourself, do you think that
if we had you in England, you would not
be committed for trial summarily, and your
correct demeanour would only go to influence
the verdict of the jury. This fellow,
I can see, observes the look of dislike with
which I measure him—there is a rapport in
these things as well as in likings—and I
can see he is thinking, "You are coming
into our net, my boy; we shall strip you,
and that will teach you not to be offensive
to the administration. You want a lesson."

Talking to Grainger last night, on the
only subject on which he can talk fluently,
a short stumpy man with a jet, glossy,
hair-dresser beard and moustache, a little
hat, and coat very short, also comes up and
says languidly, "How do, Grainger?" He
then sat down in front of us, leant back,
drawing at his cigar with half-closed eyes,
and moving his cane up and down between
his knees in a sort of slow dance.

"Well, D'Eyncourt," said Grainger, "I
went back to those infernal tables, in spite
of the advice of my good friend, which I
had determined to follow."

"Pretended to determine to follow," ho
answered, with a slow, drawl. " Tell the
truth always, and shame—our friends inside
yonder."

I never saw a face I disliked more, it was
so tallowy, and then the little eyes were
quite flat and oval, and exactly of the pattern
we see in a pig. I was going to say
"cat;" but the head had not the character
which a cat has. He had a sort of Turkish
air, and I had often remarked him as
he looked at ladies passing by, with an
inert blinking, as though he were saying,
"I bring you to me; if I chose to exert
myself, you could not resist, but you are
not worth it." He was a solitary man,
though sometimes I saw him seated with
a family of girls about him, his head back,
his pig's eyes blinking at them, the words
dropping languidly from his mouth, as who
should say, " I just serve you out a few
marbles, you are not worth more, and mind
—I am doing this to amuse myself."

He had been a traveller, and the glossy
locks were said to take a good deal of time
to keep in that rich and glossy state.

"You say very queer things," said
Grainger. " Only that we know you."

"No you don't; I want no excuse of that
sort. I say what I like."

"Then some one will be punishing you
one of these days."

The only answer was a sleepy look of
contempt, which seemed to make Grainger
uneasy.

"My friend here," he said, " believes in
systems; my friend Austen, who has come
here for his health."

The other never looked at me a second,
or seemed to acknowledge this ambiguous
introduction.

"You have always played on a system,"
he drawled out, " and with such success!"

"I never lost, but when I did. Curse
them all! They are the devil's own mousetraps
and spring-guns."

"You know best about him," said the
other. " But you have stumbled on a truth
for once—of course too late. You point a
moral here; the good show you to their
sons as a warning. If I was the administration,