e wall. James, an
impeccable English valet, waited on "his lordship," and never spoke
unless spoken to.

"Hullo, Barty! Who's your friend?"

"Bob Maurice, Uncle Archie."

And Uncle Archie shook hands with me most cordially.

"And how's the north pole this morning?"

"Nicely, thanks, Uncle Archie."

Lord Archibald was a very tall and handsome man, about fifty--very
droll and full of anecdote; he had stories to tell about everything
in the room.

For instance, how Major Welsh of the 10th Hussars had given him that
pair of Wellingtons, which fitted him better than any boots Hoby
ever made him to measure; they were too tight for poor Welsh, who
was a head shorter than himself.

How Kerlewis made him that frock-coat fifteen years ago, and it
wasn't threadbare yet, and fitted him as well as ever--for he hadn't
changed his weight for thirty years, etc.

How that pair of braces had been made by "my lady" out of a pair of
garters she wore on the day they were married.

And then he told us how to keep trousers from bagging at the knees,
and how cloth coats should be ironed, and how often--and how to fold
an umbrella.

It suddenly occurs to me that perhaps these little anecdotes may not
be so amusing to the general reader as they were to me when he told
them, so I won't tell any more. Indeed, I have often noticed that
things look sometimes rather dull in print that were so surprisingly
witty when said in spontaneous talk a great many years ago!

Then we went to breakfast with my lady and Daphne, their charming
little daughter--Barty's sister, as he called her--"m'amour"--and
who spoke both French and English equally well.

But we didn't breakfast at once, ravenous as we boys were, for Lady
Archibald took a sudden dislike to Lord A.'s cravat, which, it
seems, he had never worn before. It was in brown satin, and Lady A.
declared that Loulou (so she called him) never looked "_en beaute_"
with a brown cravat; and there was quite a little quarrel between
husband and wife on the subject--so that he had to go back to his
dressing-room and put on a blue one.

At breakfast he talked about French soldiers of the line, and their
marching kit (as it would be called now), quite earnestly, and, as
it seemed to me, very sensibly--though he went through little
mimicries that made his wife scream with laughter, and me too; and
in the middle of breakfast Barty sang "Le Chant du Depart" as well
as he could for laughing:

"L