crimson dressing-gown, with yellow slippers; his shirt-collar was open, and thrown down over his shoulders,--leaving exposed to view a quantity of sand-colored hair under his throat. In fact, he looked the image of some impudent scamp of a valet, who has, in his master's absence, chosen to dress himself in that master's clothes, and affect his luxurious airs. He lay on the sofa with his hookah in his left hand; near him was the table, on which stood the _Morning Growl_, and some eight or ten letters, only one or two of which had as yet been opened. He had just leaned back his head, and with an air of tranquil enjoyment very slowly expelled a mouthful of smoke, when a servant submissively entered, and announced the arrival of a visitor--Mr. Gammon. "How d' ye do, Gammon!--early, eh?" commenced Titmouse, without stirring, and with infinite composure and nonchalance. Mr. Gammon made the usual reply, and presently sat down in the chair placed for him by the servant, nearly opposite to Mr. Titmouse--who, had he been accustomed to observation, or capable of it, might have detected something rather unusual in the flushed face, the anxious and restless eye, and the _forced_ manner of his visitor. "Likely to be a devilish hot day--'pon my soul!".--exclaimed Titmouse, after again emptying his mouth--adding in a tolerably conceited manner--"By the way--here's a letter from Snap--just opened it!--Rather cool, after what's passed--eh? Dem him, asks me for a place under government;--Ah--a--what's he fit for?" "For what he _is_, and nothing else," replied Gammon, with a bitter smile, glancing over poor Snap's letter, which Titmouse handed to him, though marked "strictly confidential"--Gammon being undoubtedly the very last man upon earth whom Snap would have wished to know of his application. "Were you at the House last night?" inquired Gammon--"They sat very late! Lord Bulfinch made, I think, a very powerful speech"---- "Yes--devilish good--rather long though; and too many of those cursed _figures_ that--by Jove--no one cares about!" replied Titmouse, languidly. He had by this time turned himself towards Mr. Gammon,--his right arm and leg hanging carelessly over the further side of the sofa. "Lady Cecilia is well, I hope?" "Can't say--not seen her this week," drawled Titmouse. "I'll ring and ask if you wish," he added, with an affected smile. "Ah, my dear Titmouse," quoth Gammon, blandly, and with a smile of delicious flattery, "I hope you don't give her Ladyship just cause for _jealousy_?--eh? You must not avail yourself of your--your acknowledged power over the sex--ahem!" Mr. Titmouse, half closing his eyes, silently expelled a mouthful of smoke, while an ineffable smile stole over his features. "You must not neglect her Ladyship, Titmouse," quoth Gammon, gently shaking his head, and with an anxiously deferential air.