The celebrated beau, George Brummell, who had been presented to Amy by Julia in the round room at the opera, now entered and put poor Julia in high spirits. Brummell, as Julia always declared, was, when in the 10th Dragoons, a very handsome young man. However that might have been, nobody could have mistaken him for anything like handsome at the moment she presented him to us. Julia assured me that he had, by some accident, broken the bridge of his nose, and which said broken bridge had lost him a lady and her fortune of twenty thousand pounds. This, from the extreme flatness of it, his nose, I mean, not the fortune, appeared probable. He was extremely fair, and the expression of his countenance far from disagreeable. His person too was rather good; nor could anybody find fault with the taste of all those who for years had made it a rule to copy the cut of Brummell's coat, the shape of his hat, or the tie of his neckcloth: for all this was in the very best possible style. "No perfumes," Brummell used to say, "but very fine linen, plenty of it, and country washing." "If John Bull turns round to look after you, you are not well dressed: but either too stiff, too tight, or too fashionable." "Do not ride in ladies' gloves; particularly with leather breeches." In short, his maxims on dress were excellent. Besides this, he was neither uneducated nor deficient. He possessed also a sort of quaint, dry humour, not amounting to anything like wit; indeed, he said nothing which would bear repetition; but his affected manners and little absurdities amused for the moment. Then it became the fashion to court Brummell's society, which was enough to make many seek it who cared not for it; and many more wished to be well with him through fear, for all knew him to be cold, heartless, and satirical. It appeared plain and evident to me that his attention to Julia was no longer the effect of love. Piqued at the idea of having been refused marriage by a woman with whom Cotton had so easily succeeded, _sans cérémonie_, he determined in his own mind soon to be even with his late brother officer. And pray, madam, the reader may ask; how came you to be thus early acquainted with George Brummell's inmost soul? A mere guess. I will tell you why. Brummell talked to Julia while he looked at me; and as soon as he could manage it with decency, he contrived to place himself by my side. "What do you think of Colonel Cotton?" said he, when I mentioned Julia. "A very fine dark man," I answered, "though not at all to my taste, for I never admire dark men." "No man in England stinks like Cotton," said Brummell. "Ah! ah!" thought I, "_me voilà au fait!_" "A little Eau de Portugal would do no harm in that quarter, at all events," I remarked laughing, while alluding to his dislike of perfumery.