A long-necked green bottle of what the Bumbler called “bluecellas,” then goes its rounds; and the first qualms of hunger being appeased, the gentlemen are more inclined to talk and listen to the luncheon-dining ladies. Mrs. Rocket Larkspur has been waiting most anxiously for Billy’s last mouthful, in order to interrogate him, as well as to London fashion, as to his opinions of the Miss “ums.” Of course with Miss “um” sitting just below Billy, the latter must be done through the medium of the former,—so she leads off upon London. “She supposed he’d been very gay in London?” “Yarse,” drawled Billy in the true dandified style, drawing his napkin across his lips as he spoke. Mrs. Rocket wasn’t so young as she had been, and Billy was too young to take up with what he profanely called “old ladies.” “He’d live at the west-end, she s’posed?” “Yarse,” replied Billy, feeling his amplified tie. “Did he know Billiter Square?” “Yarse,” replied he, running his ringed fingers down his studs. “Was it fashionable?” asked Mrs. Rocket. (She had a cousin lived there who had asked her to go and see her.) “Y-a-a-rse, I should say it is,” drawled Billy, now playing with a bunch of trinkets, a gold miniature pistol, a pearl and diamond studded locket, a gold pencil-case, and a white cornelian heart, suspended to his watch-chain. “Y-a-a-rse, I should say it is,” repeated he; adding “not so fashionable as Belgrave.” “Sceuse me, sare,” interrupted Monsieur Jean Rougier from behind his master’s chair, “Sceuse me, it is not fashionable, sare,—it is not near de Palace or de Park of Hyde, sare, bot down away among those dem base mechanics in de east—beyond de Mansion ‘Ouse, in fact.” “Oh, ah, y-a-a-rse, true,” replied Billy, not knowing where it was, but presuming from Mrs. Larkspur’s inquiry that it was some newly sprung-up square on one of the western horns of the metropolis.