The ever-increasing facilities for airing one’s grievances in long primer, he contends, are destructive of that chaste reserve once characteristic of our race. I agree with O’Hagan. He declares that we love to be interviewed. “Is it not true, Raymond,” he cries, “that for the sake of seeing her photograph (retouched) in the columns of a daily paper, Mrs. Brown-Jones will reveal to the blushing public the secret of her corsets? Does she not draw attention to the graceful contour of her form, and she (the mother of a family) take the man in the street into her confidence, imparting to him intimate particulars respecting her wardrobe which, if used indiscreetly, would prove most compromising? “Alas, O’Hagan,” I reply, “it is so.” He throws himself back in his chair, purple-lined cloak widely flying; picturesque, hatless head raised in scorn. He is the focus of a hundred gazes. “A young lady,” he continues, “whom one might assume from her picture in the advertisement column to be not wholly destitute of modesty, will inform edified readers that ‘until Mrs. Hodge brought me a box of Nippo Ointment my face was one red mass of pimples!’ She will declare that formerly she was unable to sleep at night owing to the itching of her back!” His scorn is terrible; superbly fearful. Advertisement is anathema. We are seated in the Park, wherein at the moment no one else is talked of but my distinguished friend. Those who have the honour of his acquaintance acquire a new popularity with the less fortunate. Several countesses and a charming duchess have repassed us no fewer than nine times. But O’Hagan, serenely insensible to the admiration which he excites in so many bosoms, lounges regally aloof, as one upon a lofty minaret who scarce glances down to the throngs beneath him. An author of “costume” romances passes. His studiously cultivated resemblance to Napoleon III. usually earns him a buzz of acknowledgment. This morning he moves amid the chill of unrecognition, and raises his prominent moustache fiercely and rudely as he glares at my companion, who usurps all homage. “That fellow stares in an unwarrantable manner,” says O’Hagan; and taking my arm, he proceeds in the same direction. We overtake the author, despite my lagging footsteps; for I perceive that my friend is bent upon some extravagant act. “Pardon me, sir!” The author turns, glaring. “But are you connected with the house of Buonaparte?” The author, puzzled, faintly gratified: “Not directly, sir. But what——” “I regret that, sir. I cherish an antipathy from the family which I may term hereditary. Your reply deprives me of the pleasure of trimming your _moustachios_!” The man is stricken speechless. It is such an encounter as he has portrayed (on paper) a score of times. But in the actuality it finds him lacking. “For your whole appearance is most distasteful to me,” concludes the Captain. “Good morning.” (We proceed.)