This is to generalize, which, perhaps, is better than a particular description in this squeamish day of the occasion when Harry Whitworth made his re-appearance at Almack’s resolved to write his name large in the Bacchanalian annals of the Club. He was to dine in the Pavilion at Brighton with his Royal Highness next night, and, by the Lord, Almack’s was to remember that he had come into his own again. Some crowded hours had passed when the memorialist at the table’s head unsteadily picked up a glass and saying mechanically, “A glass of wine with you, sir,” found himself isolating from a ruddy haze the flushed face of Mr. Verners. “Verners!” he cried. “Verners! What’s the connection? Dorothy, by Gad! Going Brighton kiss Prinny’s hand to-morrow, Verners. Going your house kiss Dorothy’s hand to-night. Better the night, better the deed. Dorothy first, Prinny second. Gentlemen, Dorothy Verners!” There wasn’t more sobriety in the whole company than would have sufficed to add two and two together, and nobody noticed, let alone protested, when the host reeled from the table, linked his arm in that of Mr. Verners and left the room. Mr. Verners’ mind was a blessed blank gently suffused with joy. Incapable of thought, he felt that he had on his arm a prisoner whose capture was to do him great honor. The servants put them tenderly in a coach for the short drive to Albemarle Street. “I shall call you Father,” said Sir Harry, and the singular spectacle might have been observed, had the night been light and the coach open, of an elderly gentleman endeavoring to kiss the cheek of a younger, his efforts frustrated by the jolting of the coach, so that the pair of them pivoted to and fro on their bases like those absurd weighted toy eggs the pedlars sell, and came, swaying in ludicrous rhythm, to the Verners’ lodging.