sir," said the inexorable old lady to me, as I sat
almost stunned and stupid.

"Yes—with brandy—a full glass of brandy
in it," cried I, in the half-despair of one who
knew not how to rally himself.

"I think we may retire, Miss H.," said Mrs.
Keats, rising with a severe dignity that seemed
to say, "We are not bound to assist at an orgie."
And with a stern stare and a defiant little bow
she moved towards the door. I was so
awe-struck, that I never moved from my place, but
stood resting my hand on my chair, till she said,
"Do you mean to open the door, sir, or am I to
do it for myself?"

I sprang forward at once, and flung it wide,
my face all scarlet with shame.

She passed out, and Miss Herbert followed
her. Her dress, however, catching in the doorway,
she turned back to extricate it; I seized
the moment to stoop down and say, "Do let me
see you for one moment, this evening—one only
moment."

She shook her head in silent negative, and
went away.

I sat down at the table, and filled myself a
large goblet of wine: I drank it off, and
replenished it. It was only this morning, a few
brief hours ago, and I would not have changed
fortunes with the Emperor of France. Life
seemed to open before me like some beautiful
alley in a garden, with a glorious vista in the
distance. I would not have bartered the place in
that cabriolet for the proudest throne in Europe.
She was there beside me, listening in rapt
attention, as I discoursed voyages, travels,
memoirs, poetry, and personal adventures. With
every changeful expression of lovely sympathy
did she follow me through all. I was a hero to
us both, myself as much captivated as she was;
and now the brief drama was over, the lights
were put out, and the theatre closed! How
had I destroyed this golden delusion—why had
I quarrelled with her, and for what? For a
certain Potts, a creature who, in reality, had no
existence! "For who is Potts?" said I. "Potts is
no more a 'substance' than Caleb Williams or
Peregrine Pickle; Potts is the lay figure, that
the artist dresses in any costume he requires—a
Ranchero to-day, a Railway Director to-morrow.
What an absurdity in the importance we lend to
mere names! Here, for instance, I take the label
off the port and I hang it round the neck of the
claret decanter: have I changed the quality of
the vintage? have I brought Bordeaux to the
meridian of Oporto? Not a bit of it. And yet
a man is to be more the victim of an accident
than a bottle of wine, and his intrinsic
qualities —strength, flavour, and richness—are not
to be tested, but simply implied from the label
round his neck! How narrow-minded, after all,
of her, who ought to have known better! It is
thus, however, we educate our women; this is
part and parcel of the false system by which we
fancy we make them companionable. The North
American Indians are far in advance of us in
all this: they assign them their proper places and
fitting duties; they feel that, in this life of ours,
order and happiness depend on the due
distribution of burdens, and the Snapping Alligator
never feels his squaw more truly his helpmate
than when she is skinning eels for his
dinner."

How I hated that old woman! I don't think
I ever detested a human creature so much as
that. I have often speculated as to whether
venomous reptiles have any gratification
imparted to them when they inflict a poisonous
wound. Is the mosquito the happier of having
stung one's nose? And, in the same spirit, I should
like to know, do the disagreeable people of this
world sleep the better from the consciousness of
having offended us? Is there that great ennobling
sense of a mission fulfilled for every cheek
they set on fire and every heart they depress?
and do they quench hope and extinguish ambition
with the same zeal that the Sun or the
Phœnix put out a fire?

"'If you drink wine, sir, pray order it,'" said
I, mimicking her imperious tone. "Yes,
madam, I do drink wine, and I mean to order it,
and liberally. I travel at the expense of that
noble old paymaster who only wags his tail the
more the more he has to pay—the British Lion.
I go down in the extraordinaries. I'm on what
is called a special service. 'Keep an account of
your expenses, Paynter!' Confound his
insolence, he would say ' Paynter.' By the way, I
have never looked how he calls me in my passport.
I'm curious to see if I be Paynter
there." I had left the bag containing this and my
money in my room, and I rang the bell, and told
the waiter to fetch it.

The passport set forth in due terms all the
dignities, honours, and decorations of the great
man who granted it, and who bespoke for the
little man who travelled by it, all aid and assistance
possible, and to let him pass freely, &c.
"Mr. Ponto—British subject." "'Ponto!'
What an outrage! This comes of a man making
his maître d'hôtel his secretary. That stupid
French flunkey has converted me into a water
dog. This may explain a good deal of the old lady's
rudeness; how could she be expected to be
even ordinarily civil to a man called Ponto?
She'd say at once, 'His father was an Italian,
and of course a courier, or a valet; or he was a
foundling, and called after a favourite spaniel.'
I'll rectify this without loss of time. If she
has not the tact to discover the man of education
and breeding by the qualities he displays in
intercourse, she shall be brought to admit them
by the demands of his self-respect."

I opened my writing-desk and wrote just two
lines—a polite request for a few moments of
interview, signed "A. S. Pottinger." I wrote
the name in a fine text hand, as though to say,
"No more blunders, madam, this is large as
print."

"ake this to your mistress, François," said
I to the courier.

"Gone to bed, sir."

"Gone to bed! why, it's only eight o'clock."

A shrug and a smile were all he replied.

"And Miss Herbert—can I speak to her?"