It was not in my nature to fraternise very cordially with a gentleman of Mr. Naggett’s superior qualities. I am bound, nevertheless, to admit, that his advances towards myself were cordial, not to say familiar in the extreme. The undisguised admiration, however, with which Miss Lushington regarded his every movement, and the terms of intimacy on which he obviously stood with that decorous lady, may have prejudiced me somewhat against him. There is a class of men, however, I have often observed, and I say it in justice to Miss Lushington, with whom the genus Barmaid seems to possess some mysterious affinity. As Eastern poets feign that there is a certain bird to which the tree involuntarily bends its branches, and the flower opens its petals, so I am convinced there is a description of individual who is looked on with peculiar favour by actresses, barmaids, hostesses, and other ladies whose avocations bring them much into the presence of a discerning public. These favourites of her sex are generally remarkable for exuberance of spirits, command of language, a vivid freshness of complexion, and general freedom of manner. They are loud in assumption, and great on all topics of political or public interest; also prone to plunge into quarrels, from which they invariably extricate themselves without recourse to ulterior measures. His female admirers, in describing such a one, generally sum up their catalogue of his merits by vowing that he is “very free in company, and _quite the gentleman_.” Mr. Naggett, stirring the fire with his boot, and winking facetiously on Miss Lushington, as he drank her health in his hot negus, and asked her whether she had ordered her wedding-bonnet yet, obligingly remarked, that “it was a cold night, and he was sorry to see my arm in a sling;” also “that he had heard of my accident, and hoped it wouldn’t be long before I _over-got_ it,” with which friendly wish, expressed in a compound verb, he finished his negus, and ordered some more, calling Miss L. “my dear,” unblushingly, to my excessive disgust. He then drew his chair to the fire, expressed his astonishment that Tips had gone to “perch,” as he called it, and proceeded to make himself agreeable. “A nasty fall, sir, yours must have been, as I understand,” said he, “and it’s well as it wasn’t worse. You’ve a nice-ish team standing here, but you’ll excuse _me_, sir, they’re not exactly the _class_ of horse for a gentleman like you to ride. I’ve been fond of horses all my life, from a boy, I may say, and I’m forty years of age now: forty years of age, though perhaps you wouldn’t think it, and in that time I’ve learned to keep my eyes open. Now, sir, you don’t ride so very light, I’ll be bound to say.”