I beg that you'll allood to him 'enceforth as Young Har? This
is Young Har's own room, sir. These is Young Har's own picters, sir.
When Young Har is absent, I generally sit 'ere with me cigar and observe
said picters. I'm fond of hart, sir; I find hart soothing and restful.
The picters surrounding of you are all painted by Young Har's very own
'and--subjeks various. Number one--a windmill very much out o' repair,
but that's hart, sir. Number two--a lady dressed in what I might term
dish-a-bell, sir, and there isn't much of it, but that's hart again.
Number three--a sunset. Number four--moonlight; 'e didn't get the moon
in the picter but the light's there and that's the great thing--effect,
sir, effect! Of course, being only studies, they don't look
finished--which is the most hartisticest part about 'em! But, lord!
Young Har never finishes anything--too tired! 'Ang me, sir, if I don't
think 'e were born tired! But then, 'oo ever knew a haristocrat as
wasn't?"

"But," demurred Mr. Stevens, staring down into his empty glass, "I
thought 'e was a American, your--Young Har?"

"Why, 'e is and 'e ain't, sir. His father was only a American, I'll
confess, but his mother was blue blood, every drop guaranteed, sir, and
as truly English as--as I am!"

"And is 'e the Mr. Ravenslee as is the sportsman? Goes in for boxing,
don't 'e? Very much fancied as a heavyweight, ain't 'e? My governor's
seen him box and says 'e's a perfect snorter, by Jove!"

Mr. Brimberly sighed, and soothed a slightly agitated whisker.

"Why, yes," he admitted, "I'm afraid 'e does box--but only as a
ammitoor, Mr. Stevens, strickly as a ammitoor, understand!"

"And he's out making a night of it, is 'e?" enquired Mr. Stevens,
leaning back luxuriously and stretching his legs. "Bit of a rip, ain't
'e?"

"A--wot, sir?" enquired Mr. Brimberly with raised brows.

"Well, very wild, ain't he--drinks, gambles, and hetceteras, don't he?"

"Why, as to that, sir," answered Mr. Brimberly, dexterously performing
on the syphon, "I should answer you, drink 'e may, gamble 'e do,
hetceteras I won't answer for, 'im being the very hacme of
respectability though 'e is a millionaire and young."

"And when might you expect 'im back?"

"Why, there's no telling, Mr. Stevens."

"Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Stevens, and sat up very suddenly.

"'Is movements, sir, is quite--ah--quite metehoric!"

"My eye!" exclaimed Mr. Stevens, gulping his brandy and soda rather
hastily.

"Mete