“Ah! good morning, good morning, Miss’r Witterlee,” rejoined the old Frenchman, politely, with a quick salute of the hand. Privately, Monsieur Bagasse had a supreme contempt for his visitor. Nobody could have guessed it, however, who saw the bland suavity on his grotesque visage, as he curiously scanned the face before him. A plump, smooth, colorless, bilious face, handsome in its general effect, subtle, morbid, fastidious, supercilious, reticent; but with all its traits masked in a cool assumption of impassibility. With thick, brown hair gracefully arranged; handsome, expressive brown eyebrows; brown eyes, with a restless glitter on them when they were in motion, and a perfect opaqueness in them when they were still; lips which were rigid in their contour, usually slightly parted, and which moved but little in their speech. Primarily, the face of an epicurean and a dilettante; a face, too, that bespoke cynicism, conceit, arrogance, and indescribable capacity of aggravation and insult. Such was the face which Monsieur Bagasse smilingly and suavely interrogated. “Where are our friends this fine morning?” Witherlee asked, carelessly, with an affected elegance of utterance, which was a cross between mincing and drawling. “Not arrived yet? The lazy fellows! Perfect sloths, both of them.” “Lazee? Oh no! It is vair early yet,” returned Monsieur Bagasse. “Miss’r Harrin’ton an’ Miss’r Wentwort’ are not lazee yet, Miss’r Witterly.” “Oh, they’re up early enough, I know,” replied the other, “for I met them an hour ago, idling along Temple street with some ladies.” “Maybe zose ladee was zere sweetheart. Ah, Miss’r Witterly, pardon me, it is not lazee for ze young men to promenade wis zere sweetheart—_sacre bleu_, no!” Witherlee laughed—a chuckling laugh, as though his throat was full of turtle. “I was struck with the contrast,” he remarked. “Wentworth was dressed in his dandy artist rig—spruce as Beau Brummel, and Harrington wore those superannuated old clothes, looking for all the world as if he had just been let out of the watchhouse. Splendid girls they were with too. Wentworth beside one of them was like a bizarre creature, of some sort or other, walking with a princess, and Harrington like a strapping young rag-picker along side of a queen.” “Ah, zey is vair fine young zhentilmen,” tranquilly replied Monsieur Bagasse. “Vair fine.” Witherlee made no reply, but slightly elevated his handsome eyebrows in expressive disparagement. “You know zose ladee, Miss’r Witterly?” inquired the old Frenchman. “Oh yes, very well. I walked along with them this morning. One is a Miss Eastman—she lives in Temple street with her mother. Quite rich. The other is a Miss Ames, who is visiting the Eastmans. Her family are all rich. They live at Cambridge.” “Vair fine ladee? Wis beautee—wis dollair, eh?” “Oh yes, indeed. Very much sought after too, both of them. With crowds of admirers, I assure you.”