"And I thought we had settled she was to marry Bentley's nephew Horace some day," says I, as we turned into the High Street. "It seems she has determined otherwise--the vixen; and a likely lad, too, as I remember him," says Jack, shaking his head. "Where is he now, Bentley?" says I. "Humph!" says Bentley, thoughtfully. "His last letter was writ from Venice." "Aye, that's it," says Jack, "while he's gadding abroad, this mincing, languid ass, this--" "What did you say was the fellow's name?" says I. "Tawnish!" says Jack, making a wry face over it, "the Honourable Horatio Tawnish. Come, Dick and Bentley, what shall we do in the matter?" "Speaking for myself," I returned, "it's devilish hard to determine." "And speaking for us all," says Bentley, "suppose we thrash out the question over a bottle of wine?" and swinging into the yard of "The Chequers" hard by, he dismounted and led the way to the sanded parlour. We found it empty (as it usually is at this hour) save for a solitary individual who lounged upon one of the settles, staring into the fire. He was a gentleman of middling height and very slenderly built, with a pair of dreamy blue eyes set in the oval of a face whose pallor was rendered more effective by a patch at the corner of his mouth. His coat, of a fine blue satin laced with silver, sat upon him with scarce a wrinkle (the which especially recommended itself to me); white satin small-clothes and silk stockings of the same hue, with silver-buckled, red-heeled shoes, completed a costume of an elegance seldom seen out of London. I noticed also that his wig, carefully powdered and ironed, was of the very latest French mode (vastly different to the rough scratch wigs usually affected by the gentry hereabouts), while the three-cornered hat upon the table at his elbow was edged with the very finest point. Altogether, there was about him a certain delicate air that reminded me of my own vanished youth, and I sighed. As I took my seat, yet wondering who this fine gentleman might be, Jack seized me suddenly by the arm. "Look!" says he in my ear, "damme, there sits the fellow!" Turning my head, I saw that the gentleman had risen, and he now tripped towards us, his toes carefully pointed, while a small, gold-mounted walking cane dangled from his wrist by a riband. "I believe," says he, speaking in a soft, affected voice, "I believe I have the felicity of addressing Sir John Chester?" "The same, sir," said Jack, rising, "and, sir, I wish a word with you." Here, however, remembering myself and Bentley, he introduced us--though in a very perfunctory fashion, to be sure. "Sir John," says Mr. Tawnish, "your very obedient humble; gentlemen--yours," and he bowed deeply to each of us in turn, with a prodigious flourish of the laced hat. [Illustration: "I believe I have the felicity of addressing Sir John Chester?" _Page 12._] "I repeat, sir," says Jack, returning his bow, very stiff in the back, "I repeat, I would have a word with you."