hing you can to make him
comfortable. Whom would he like to meet at dinner? I will ask some of
the Direction. Ask him, Barnes, for next Wednesday or Saturday--no;
Saturday I dine with the Speaker. But see that every attention is paid
him."

"Does he intend to have our relation up to town, sir? I should like to
meet Mrs. Mason of all things. A venerable washerwoman, I daresay, or
perhaps keeps a public-house," simpered out young Barnes.

"Silence, Barnes; you jest at everything, you young men do--you do.
Colonel Newcome's affection for his old nurse does him the greatest
honour," said the Baronet, who really meant what he said.

"And I hope my mother will have her to stay a good deal at Newcome. I'm
sure she must have been a washerwoman, and mangled my uncle in early
life. His costume struck me with respectful astonishment. He disdains
the use of straps to his trousers, and is seemingly unacquainted with
gloves. If he had died in India, would my late aunt have had to perish
on a funeral pile?" Here Mr. Quilter, entering with a heap of bills, put
an end to these sarcastic remarks, and young Newcome, applying himself
to his business (of which he was a perfect master), forgot about his
uncle till after City hours, when he entertained some young gentlemen of
Bays's Club with an account of his newly arrived relative.

Towards the City, whither he wended his way whatever had been the ball
or the dissipation of the night before, young Barnes Newcome might
be seen walking every morning, resolutely and swiftly, with his neat
umbrella. As he passed Charing Cross on his way westwards, his little
boots trailed slowly over the pavement, his head hung languid (bending
lower still, and smiling with faded sweetness as he doffed his hat and
saluted a passing carriage), his umbrella trailed after him. Not a dandy
on all the Pall Mall pavement seemed to have less to do than he.

Heavyside, a large young officer of the household troops--old Sir Thomas
de Boots--and Horace Fogey, whom every one knows--are in the window of
Bays's, yawning as widely as that window itself. Horses under the charge
of men in red jackets are pacing up and down St. James's Street. Cabmen
on the stand are regaling with beer. Gentlemen with grooms behind them
pass towards the Park. Great dowager barouches roll along emblazoned
with coronets, and driven by coachmen in silvery wigs. Wistful
provincials gaze in at the clubs. Foreigners chatter and show their
teeth,