not coming in from a walk--he's not yet out of bed.

_B_. You don't understand it.--"Gloved left hand he applied a gentle
friction to the portal of his right eye, which unclosing at the silent
summons, enabled him to perceive a repeater studded with brilliants, and
ascertain the exact minute of time, which we have already made known to
the reader, and at which our history opens."

_A_. A very grand opening indeed!

_B_. Not more than it ought to be for a fashionable novel.--"At the
sound of a silver _clochette_, his faithful Swiss valet Coridon, who had
for some time been unperceived at the door, waiting for some notice of
his master, having thrown off the empire of Somnus, in his light pumps,
covered with beaver, moved with noiseless step up to the bedside, like
the advance of eve stealing over the face of nature."

_A_. Rather an incongruous simile.

_B_. Not for a fashionable novel.--"There he stood, like Taciturnity
bowing at the feet of proud Authority."

_A_. Indeed, Barnstaple, that is too _outre_.

_B_. Not a whit: I am in the true "Cambysis' vein."--"Coridon having
softly withdrawn the rose-coloured gros de Naples bed-curtains, which by
some might have been thought to have been rather too extravagantly
fringed with the finest Mechlin lace, exclaimed with a tone of tremulous
deference and affection, `_Monsieur a bien dormi_?' `Coridon,' said the
Honourable Augustus Bouverie, raising himself on his elbow in that
eminently graceful attitude for which he was so remarkable when
reclining on the ottomans at Almacks--"

_A_. Are you sure they have ottomans there?

_B_. No; but your readers can't disprove it.--"`Coridon,' said he,
surveying his attendant from head to foot, and ultimately assuming a
severity of countenance, `Coridon, you are becoming gross, if not
positively what the people call _fat_.' The Swiss attendant fell back
in graceful astonishment three steps, and arching his eyebrows,
extending his inverted palms forward, and raising his shoulders above
the apex of his head, exclaimed, `_Pardon, milor, j'en aurais un horreur
parfait_.' `I tell you,' replied our gracefully recumbent hero, `that
it is so, Coridon; and I ascribe it to your partiality for that
detestable wine called Port. Confine yourself to Hock and Moselle,
sirrah: I fear me, you have a base hankering after mutton and beef.
Restrict yourself to salads, and do not sin even with an omelette more
than once a week. Coridon m