R'S social
characteristics all flash across me. I haven't seen him for years, and
had forgotten them. I recollect _now_, he is what they call "an
inveterate punster," and loves when abroad (though an accomplished
linguist) to speak the language of the country in which he may be
temporarily sojourning with a strong English accent; it is also a part
of his humour to embellish his discourse with English idioms literally
translated,--or, _vice versa_, to give French idioms in colloquial
English; so that on the whole his conversational style, when in foreign
parts, is peculiar. The impression left in my memory years ago of
PULLER, is that he is a wonderfully good-natured fellow unless a trifle
puts him out, when he flares up suddenly into red heat; but this is
seldom, and he cools down directly if allowed to stand. When he is not
in the highest possible spirits he is an agreeable companion, as he can
give some interesting, but utterly untrustworthy, information on most
subjects, and, when this comes to an end, he falls asleep suddenly,--he
does everything suddenly,--but, as I have since ascertained, does not
snore. When at his office in London he is the second partner of an
eminent firm of Solicitors with a varied and extensive business. For a
safe and sound legal opinion in any difficult matter, specially on the
Chancery side, there is no one to whom I would sooner go myself, or
recommend a friend than JAMES PULLER, of HORLER, PULLER, PULLER (J.),
BAKER AND DAYVILLE. For the greater part of the year JAMES PULLER is
hard at work, and is gravity itself, except on certain social and
festive occasions. But in vacation-time he gives up Law and goes in for
Lunacy. "I feel," he says, when he returns, still capering on the
platform, this time with his stick in one hand and his hat in the other,
"I feel like a school-boy out for a holiday," and, allowing for the
difference of age and costume, he looks the character.

Travelling is very tiring; so is rising early in the morning (which is
included in the process of travelling) after a night spent in fitful
dozing, one's rest being broken by nervous anxiety as to whether the
waiter will remember to call one at the cruel hour of 6.30, or not, and
determining to be up at that time exactly, and if he doesn't appear
punctually, to ring for him to bring the bath and the boots; then
preternatural wakefulness, then the drowsiness, then the painful
emptiness, then the necessity for extraordina