ry energy and bustle,--all
this fatigues me so much, that when at last I find myself in a
comfortable railway-carriage, I sink back, and prepare to make up for
the lost sleep of the previous night.

PULLER has been travelling all night right through, yet he is now as
fresh as the proverbial lark. He is smoking. He came up smoking. I am a
smoker, but at an early hour on a hot day, and comparatively
unbreakfasted, I do not like the smell of the last half-inch of a strong
and newish cigar such as PULLER is now smoking. He is sucking at this
last morsel of it as if it were the only one he should take (I wish it
were) for another month, and as if it went to his heart to part with it.

"Don't you smoke your cigars rather short?" I ask, mildly, by way of a
hint.

"No," he replies, quickly; "I smoke them rather long. Had him there,
eh?" he says playfully, turning to Cousin JANE, who, I regret to say,
encourages him with an appreciative smile. After his fit of chuckles has
subsided (in which I do not join), he takes off his hat _a la
francaise_, and addresses himself to Cousin JANE.

"If Madame does not oppose herself to that I shall smoke."

JANE graciously returns, "Oh dear no, I do not mind smoke," which isn't
at all what I want her to say on this occasion. PULLER throws away what
is left of his cigar, and, producing an enormous case, offers me what he
calls "a beauty,"--very big, very dark one, with a bit of red and gold
paper wrapped round its middle, as if it were in a delicate state of
health and might suffer from rheumatism,--but I decline it, saying
pointedly, "I can't stand smoking so early, and before breakfast."

"Oh," he returns in an offhand manner, "can't you? I can smoke any time,
it doesn't affect _me_. Besides, I had a first-rate breakfast at the
fork, and spoon too, at the buffet,"--he pronounces this word as written
in English--this is his fun (i.e.__, the fun of a high-spirited
Solicitor on a holiday), and forthwith he lights the big cigar, changes
his seat so as to face us both, and then commences a conversation about
all sorts of things, seasoned with his jokes and comic French, at which
he laughs himself uproariously, and appeals to me to know if it,
whatever the joke may be, "Wasn't bad, was it?" And when I beg him to
spare some of his witticisms, as he'll want them for the friends he's
going to meet at Royat--(thank Heaven, he _is_ going to meet
friends!)--he only says, "Oh, there's lots more wher