an from Virginia who has lost his elder brother and absolutely
regrets him. The breed ain't known in this country. Upon my honour and
conscience, I believe that you would like to have him back again."

"Believe!" cries the Virginian, growing red in the face.

"That is, you believe you believe you would like him back again. But
depend on it you wouldn't. 'Tis not in human nature, sir; not as I read
it, at least. Here are some fine houses we are coming to. That at the
corner is Sir Richard Littleton's, that great one was my Lord Bingley's.
'Tis a pity they do nothing better with this great empty space of
Cavendish Square than fence it with these unsightly boards. By George!
I don't know where the town's running. There's Montagu House made into
a confounded Don Saltero's museum, with books and stuffed birds and
rhinoceroses. They have actually run a cursed cut--New Road they call
it--at the back of Bedford House Gardens, and spoilt the Duke's comfort,
though, I guess, they will console him in the pocket. I don't know
where the town will stop. Shall we go down Tyburn Road and the Park, or
through Swallow Street, and into the habitable quarter of the town? We
can dine at Pall Mall, or, if you like, with you; and we can spend the
evening as you like--with the Queen of Spades, or..."

"With the Queen of Spades, if your lordship pleases," says Mr.
Warrington, blushing. So the equipage drove to his hotel in Covent
Garden, where the landlord came forward with his usual obsequiousness,
and recognising my Lord of March and Ruglen, bowed his wig on to my
lord's shoes in his humble welcomes to his lordship. A rich young
English peer in the reign of George the Second; a wealthy patrician
in the reign of Augustus; which would you rather have been? There is a
question for any young gentlemen's debating-clubs of the present day.

The best English dinner which could be produced, of course, was at the
service of the young Virginian and his noble friend. After dinner came
wine in plenty, and of quality good enough even for the epicurean earl.
Over the wine there was talk of going to see the fireworks at Vauxhall,
or else of cards. Harry, who had never seen a firework beyond an
exhibition of a dozen squibs at Williamsburg on the fifth of November
(which he thought a sublime display), would have liked the Vauxhall, but
yielded to his guest's preference for piquet; and they were very soon
absorbed in that game.

Harry began by winning as u