ey's rage and his despair.

At the close of the evening the tailor was in a greater rage, and the
perfumer in greater despair than ever. He had made his little present
of eau-de-Cologne. "Oh fie!" says the Captain, with a horse-laugh, "it
SMELLS OF THE SHOP!" He taunted the tailor about his wig, and the honest
fellow had only an oath to give by way of repartee. He told his stories
about his club and his lordly friends. What chance had either against
the all-accomplished Howard Walker?

Old Crump, with a good innate sense of right and wrong, hated the man;
Mrs. Crump did not feel quite at her ease regarding him; but Morgiana
thought him the most delightful person the world ever produced.

Eglantine's usual morning costume was a blue satin neck-cloth
embroidered with butterflies and ornamented with a brandy-ball brooch, a
light shawl waistcoat, and a rhubarb-coloured coat of the sort which, I
believe, are called Taglionis, and which have no waist-buttons, and made
a pretence, as it were, to have no waists, but are in reality adopted by
the fat in order to give them a waist. Nothing easier for an obese man
than to have a waist; he has but to pinch his middle part a little, and
the very fat on either side pushed violently forward MAKES a waist,
as it were, and our worthy perfumer's figure was that of a bolster cut
almost in two with a string.

Walker presently saw him at his shop-door grinning in this costume,
twiddling his ringlets with his dumpy greasy fingers, glittering with
oil and rings, and looking so exceedingly contented and happy that the
estate-agent felt assured some very satisfactory conspiracy had been
planned between the tailor and him. How was Mr. Walker to learn what the
scheme was? Alas! the poor fellow's vanity and delight were such, that
he could not keep silent as to the cause of his satisfaction; and rather
than not mention it at all, in the fulness of his heart he would have
told his secret to Mr. Mossrose himself.

"When I get my coat," thought the Bond Street Alnaschar, "I'll hire
of Snaffle that easy-going cream-coloured 'oss that he bought from
Astley's, and I'll canter through the Park, and WON'T I pass through
Little Bunker's Buildings, that's all? I'll wear my grey trousers with
the velvet stripe down the side, and get my spurs lacquered up, and a
French polish to my boot; and if I don't DO for the Captain, and the
tailor too, my name's not Archibald. And I know what I'll do: I'll hire
the