"I know better," Fred Beauclerc would answer, "and yet I am fool enough to love a woman who is going mad for another man. However, if I get well over this folly, I will for the rest of my life reign lord paramount or nothing." His lordship really loved me, and above all he loved my foot. I was never in his opinion _assez bien chaussée;_ therefore, he used to go about town with one of my shoes in his pocket, as a pattern to guide him in his constant search after pretty shoes for me. Fred Beauclerc is a sly, shy, odd man, not very communicative, unless one talks about cricket. I remember when the Marquis of Wellesley did me the honour to call on me and tell me what a great man he was, and how much he had been talked of in the world--how often carried on men's shoulders without nags, with other reminiscences of equal interest, Fred Beauclerc, the Diamond Eye, cut me for Moll Raffles. I accused him of it, laughing, and he laughingly acknowledged the intrigue. "I could not endure the idea of your receiving that vain old fool, Lord Wellesley," said Beauclerc. "No harm, believe me!" I replied. "Mere curiosity induced me to have the man up, to see if he was like his brother; but you are very welcome to Mrs. Raffles; she'll make an excellent wife to a divine. Not that I know or care anything about the lady!" "And what think you of Wellesley?" said the little parson. "Why, I suppose I must either say he is clever and brilliant or be called a fool myself; so, instead of answering your question, I'll tell you what he says to me to-morrow, after I shall have acquainted him with your intrigue with his _belle amie_ Raffles." "You are not serious?" said the good clergyman, in a great fright. "Yes, I am quite serious I assure you." "What! You spoilsport! You make mischief! I would not have believed this of you." "You only do me justice--but I will tell notwithstanding: and if I either spoil your intrigue, or do mischief to anybody except the noble marquess, never forgive me." "I never will," said Beauclerc seriously, and so we parted. In the evening a remarkably fine-looking man requested to speak to me, from the Marquis of Wellesley. He wore a large brilliant on the third finger of his very white hand and was peculiarly elegant in his dress. I offered him a chair with much politeness, feeling really something like respect for Lord Wellesley's good taste in sending me such an amiable substitute for a little grey-headed, foolish old man. The gentleman bowed low and refused to sit. He told me that he came from the Marquis of Wellesley merely to say, that, if I were disengaged, he would have the pleasure of calling on me in less than an hour. "_C'est son valet, sans doute_"--thought I: and sent my compliments to Lord Wellesley.