Before, however, Graham had time to explain to his amiable neighbour the politico-economical principle according to which England, growing no tobacco, had tobacco much better than France, which did grow it, a rosy middle-aged monsieur made his appearance, saying hurriedly to Graham's neighbour, "I'm afraid I'm late, but there is still a good half-hour before us if you will give me my revenge." "Willingly, Monsieur Georges. _Garcon_, the dominos." "Have you been playing at billiards?" asked M. Georges. "Yes, two games." "With success?" "I won the first, and lost the second through the defect of my eyesight; the game depended on a stroke which would have been easy to an infant,-- I missed it." Here the dominos arrived, and M. Georges began shuffling them; the other turned to Graham and asked politely if he understood the game. "A little, but not enough to comprehend why it is said to require so much skill." "It is chiefly an affair of memory with me; but M. Georges, my opponent, has the talent of combination, which I have not." "Nevertheless," replied M. Georges, gruffly, "you are not easily beaten; it is for you to play first, Monsieur Lebeau." Graham almost started. Was it possible! This mild, limp-whiskered, flaxen-wigged man Victor de Mauleon, the Don Juan of his time; the last person in the room he should have guessed. Yet, now examining his neighbour with more attentive eye, he wondered at his stupidity in not having recognized at once the ci-devant _gentilhomme_ and _beau garcon_. It happens frequently that our imagination plays us this trick; we form to ourselves an idea of some one eminent for good or for evil,--a poet, a statesman, a general, a murderer, a swindler, a thief. The man is before us, and our ideas have gone into so different a groove that he does not excite a suspicion; we are told who he is, and immediately detect a thousand things that ought to have proved his identity.