t the end of the day, just before dinnertime. He has
paced the whole town by himself--church, tower, and fortifications,
and Rubens, and all. He is full of Egmont and Alva. He is up to all the
history of the siege, when Chassee defended, and the French attacked the
place. After dinner we stroll along the quays; and over the quiet
cigar in the hotel court, Monsieur Lankin discourses about the Rubens
pictures, in a way which shows that the learned Serjeant has an eye
for pictorial beauty as well as other beauties in this world, and can
rightly admire the vast energy, the prodigal genius, the royal splendor
of the King of Antwerp. In the most modest way in the world he has
remarked a student making clever sketches at the Museum, and has ordered
a couple of copies from him of the famous Vandyke and the wondrous
adoration of the Magi, "a greater picture," says he, "than even the
cathedral picture; in which opinion those may agree who like." He says
he thinks Miss Kicklebury is a pretty little thing; that all my swans
are geese; and that as for that old woman, with her airs and graces, she
is the most intolerable old nuisance in the world. There is much good
judgment, but there is too much sardonic humor about Lankin. He cannot
appreciate women properly. He is spoiled by being an old bachelor, and
living in that dingy old Pump Court; where, by the way, he has a cellar
fit for a Pontiff. We go to rest; they have given us humble lodgings
high up in the building, which we accept like philosophers who travel
with but a portmanteau apiece. The Kickleburys have the grand suite, as
becomes their dignity. Which, which of those twinkling lights illumines
the chamber of Miss Fanny?

Hicks is sitting in the court too, smoking his cigar. He and Lankin met
in the fortifications. Lankin says he is a sensible fellow, and seems
to know his profession. "Every man can talk well about something," the
Serjeant says. "And one man can about everything," says I; at which
Lankin blushes; and we take our flaring tallow candles and go to bed. He
has us up an hour before the starting time, and we have that period to
admire Herr Oberkellner, who swaggers as becomes the Oberkellner of a
house frequented by ambassadors; who contradicts us to our faces, and
whose own countenance is ornamented with yesterday's beard, of which, or
of any part of his clothing, the graceful youth does not appear to have
divested himself since last we left him. We recognize, som