“Too tender a heart,” sighed Peter, as he filled his glass, and sighed over an infirmity that he thought he well knew all the miseries of. “And her name, if I might make bould?” “Ricketts,----Mrs. Montague Ricketts. This is Ge-Ge-General Ricketts.” At these words the old man looked op, smiled blandly, and lifted his glass to his lips. [Illustration: 228] “Your good health, and many happy returns to yoo,” said Peter, in reply to the courtesy. “Ricketts,----Ricketts. Well, I 'm sure I heard the name before.” “In the D-D-Duke's despatches you may have seen it.” “No, no, no. I never read one of them. I heard it here in Baden. Wait, now, and I'll remember how.” Neither the effort at recollection nor the aid of a bumper seemed satisfactory, for Dalton sat musingly for several minutes together. “Well, I thought I knew the name,” exclaimed he, at last, with a deep sigh of discomfiture; “'t is runnin' in my head yet; something about chilblains,----chilblains.” “But the name is R-R-Ricketts,” screamed Purvis. “And so it is,” sighed Peter. “My brain is woolgathering. By my conscience, I have it now, though!” cried he, in wild delight. “I knew I 'd scent it out. It was one Fogles that was here,----a chap with a red wig, and deaf as a door-nail.” “Foglass, you mean,--Fo-Foglass,----don't you?” “I always called him Fogies; and I 'm sure it's as good a name as the other, any day.” “He's so pl-pleasant,” chimed in Scroope, who, under the influence of Dalton's champagne, was now growing convivial,----“he's so agreeable; always in the highest cir-circles, and dining with no-no-no----” “With nobs,” suggested Peter. “He might do better, and he might do worse. I 've seen lords that was as great rapscallions as you 'd meet from this to Kilrush.” “But Foglass was always so excl-exclusive, and held himself so high.” “The higher the better,” rejoined Dalton, “even if it was out of one's reach altogether; for a more tiresome ould crayture I never forgathered with; and such a bag of stories he had, without a bit of drollery or fun in one of them. You may think that kind of fellow good company in England; but, in my poor country, a red herring and a pint of beer would get you one he could n't howld a candle to. See now, Mister--” “P-P-Purvis,” screamed the other.