knowing.

At the time of which I write, Parole d'Honneur was a very happy emigre,
despite his enforced exile in the land of fogs. Indeed, he was an exile
no longer in the strict sense of the word, as he had received permission
to go back to France whenever he pleased; a permission of which he had
already availed himself, having paid a visit, in company with me, to
Paris, the previous month, at the time when I had been so miserable and
despondent about not meeting Min again. However, he had become so fond
of England and things English, from his long enforced residence here,
that he avowed his determination of living and dying amongst us--that
is, unless his country and "the cause" should have need of his services.

On the evening of Miss Pimpernell's little party, this patriotic
gentleman, in the presence of ladies, whom he reverenced with a knight-
errant's devotion and homage, was the life of our circle. He carried an
aroma of fun and light-heartedness about him that was simply contagious.
He sang Beranger's ditties with a verve and elan that brought back
bonny Paris and student days to those of us who were acquainted with
them. One moment he played exquisite bits from Mozart on his violin, to
the accompaniment of the vicar's violoncello, that were most entrancing;
the next, scraped away at some provoking tarantella that almost set the
whole of us dancing, in defiance of the proprieties generally observed
at the vicarage.

We were asking each other riddles and conundrums. Monsieur Parole
suddenly bethought him of one. "Ah, ha!" he said, "I heard one good
reedel ze ozer day. A leetle mees at one of my academies told it me.
Young ladies, why is ze old gentlemans, le diable, zat is--"

"O-oh! Monsieur Parole!" ejaculated Miss Pimpernell.

"Your pardon, Mees Peemple," said Monsieur Parole--he never could give
her the additional syllable to her name--"Your pardon, Mees Peemple; but
we wiz call hims somesing else. Why is--ah, ha! I have got hims. Why
is Lucifers like, when riding sur un souris, on a mouse, like the very
same tings? You gives him up? Ah, ha! I t'ought you would never guess
him!" he continued, on our professing our ignorance of the solution.
"Because he is synonime!--vat you calls sin-on-a-mouse! Ha, ha, ha!"
and he burst into a chuckle of his merry laughter.

This reminded Horner of one. "Bai-ey Je-ove!" he said, after a long
pause. "I--ah, came akwass a vewy good one the othah day--ah.