"I was meditating," said Mr. Brimberly, busied with the bottles and glasses, "I was cogitating calling hup Mr. Jenkins, the Stanways' butler across the way. The Stanways is common people, parvynoo, Mr. Stevens, parvynoo, but Mr. Jenkins is very superior and plays the banjer very affecting. Our 'ousekeeper and the maids is gone to bed, and I've give our footmen leave of habsence--I thought we might 'ave a nice, quiet musical hour or so. You perform on the piano-forty, I believe, sir?" "Only very occasional!" Mr. Stevens admitted. "But," and here his pale eyes glanced toward the door, "do I understand as he is out for the night?" "Sir," said Mr. Brimberly ponderously, "what ''e' might you be pleased to mean?" "I was merely allooding to--to your governor, sir." Mr. Brimberly glanced at his guest, set down the glass he was in the act of filling and--pulled down his waistcoat for the second time. "Sir," said he, and his cherubic whiskers seemed positively to quiver, "I presoom--I say, I presoom you are referring to--Young Har?" "I meant Mr. Ravenslee." "Then may I beg that you'll allood to him 'enceforth as Young Har? This is Young Har's own room, sir. These is Young Har's own picters, sir. When Young Har is absent, I generally sit 'ere with me cigar and observe said picters. I'm fond of hart, sir; I find hart soothing and restful. The picters surrounding of you are all painted by Young Har's very own 'and--subjeks various. Number one--a windmill very much out o' repair, but that's hart, sir. Number two--a lady dressed in what I might term dish-a-bell, sir, and there isn't much of it, but that's hart again. Number three--a sunset. Number four--moonlight; 'e didn't get the moon in the picter but the light's there and that's the great thing--effect, sir, effect! Of course, being only studies, they don't look finished--which is the most hartisticest part about 'em! But, lord! Young Har never finishes anything--too tired! 'Ang me, sir, if I don't think 'e were born tired! But then, 'oo ever knew a haristocrat as wasn't?" "But," demurred Mr. Stevens, staring down into his empty glass, "I thought 'e was a American, your--Young Har?" "Why, 'e is and 'e ain't, sir. His father was only a American, I'll confess, but his mother was blue blood, every drop guaranteed, sir, and as truly English as--as I am!" "And is 'e the Mr. Ravenslee as is the sportsman? Goes in for boxing, don't 'e? Very much fancied as a heavyweight, ain't 'e? My governor's seen him box and says 'e's a perfect snorter, by Jove!" Mr. Brimberly sighed, and soothed a slightly agitated whisker. "Why, yes," he admitted, "I'm afraid 'e does box--but only as a ammitoor, Mr. Stevens, strickly as a ammitoor, understand!" "And he's out making a night of it, is 'e?" enquired Mr. Stevens, leaning back luxuriously and stretching his legs. "Bit of a rip, ain't 'e?" "A--wot, sir?" enquired Mr. Brimberly with raised brows.