“Oh! I beg pardon—I’ve been getting every thing in readiness for our start to-morrow morning, for I have not told you how anxious I am to get to Paris before the 8th—some family business, which requires my looking after, compelling me to do so.” “As to that, let your mind be at rest, for I shall travel to-morrow night if you prefer it. Now for the Volnay. Why you are not drinking your wine. What do you say to our paying our respects to the fair ladies above stairs? I am sure the petits soins you have practised coming over would permit the liberty.” “Oh! hang it, no. There’s neither of them pretty, and I should rather avoid the risk of making a regular acquaintance with them” said I. “As you like, then—only, as you’ll not take any wine, let us have a stroll through the town.” After a short stroll through the town, in which Kilkee talked the entire time, but of what I know not, my thoughts being upon my own immediate concerns, we returned to the hotel. As we entered the porte-couchere, my friend Michael passed me, and as he took off his hat in salutation, gave me one rapid glance of his knowing eye that completely satisfied me that Hobson’s pride in my friend’s carriage had by that time received quite sufficient provocation to throw him into an apoplexy. “By-the-by,” said I, “let us see your carriage. I am curious to look at it”—(and so I was.) “Well, then come along, this way; they have placed it under some of these sheds, which they think coach-houses.” I followed my friend through the court till we arrived near the fatal spot; but before reaching, he had caught a glimpse of the mischief, and shouted out a most awful imprecation upon the author of the deed which met his eye. The fore-wheel of the coupé had been taken from the axle, and in the difficulty of so doing, from the excellence of the workmanship, two of the spokes were broken—the patent box was a mass of rent metal, and the end of the axle turned downwards like a hoe.