That carpet of mellow hue was presented by the Captain of an East Indiaman, much addicted to wind. It muffles the footsteps of the courtiers who throng the stairs, and secures a respectful calm. It even enables us to reach the door of his bedchamber unheralded, but as, invisible and armed with reverence, we cross the threshold, the Great Beau is nowhere to be seen. We observe his bedclothes dignified even in disarray, we see the open patchbox, the bottles of Eau de Luce and Eau de Chypre, the black sattin tie and the wig on the stand, but not until, instinct with awe, we drop our eyes, do we behold two pink feet and the Circumference of the least austere portion of his anatomy wrapped, it is true, in embroidered dressing gown, and with the bedspread hung about it like a pall, yet nevertheless an unmistakeable Circumference protruding from beneath the bed. Diana very wisely killed Actaeon for overlooking her toilet, and I doubt we deserve the same penalty, for when, the errant button in his hand, we see the Beau emerge with purple cheeks and oaths innumerable, a certain conviction steals over our shocked sensibility that the Great little Man is only mortal after all, of the same temper and anatomy as ourselves, and, as the gods know very well, this is a mighty dangerous and revolutionary discovery. There stood Beau Ripple dancing and d--g, while a monologue with appropriate action went somehow like this: _Beau._ D---- all buttons for being round. Then he danced. _Beau._ D---- all pins for dropping upon the floor and the chambermaids for not picking them up, and my own feet for treading on them. Then he danced again. _Beau._ D---- all beds for being wide. Then he danced. _Beau._ D---- my eyes, I shall be late for the waters. Then he danced to his mirrour. And the mirrour showed a man of ripe age with smooth round face and a pair of very blue eyes. _Beau._ And d---- you, Ripple, for a clumsy old fool. Hereupon the Great little Man beamed at himself, for the nature of him was so truly kind that he could not be crossed by himself for long, and as for the world, his severity never upset the balance of a well-turned phrase. He was an urbane man, one who had presumably lived all his life in prim and decorous cities but, since he will preside over this story of mine, we shall learn more about him as we go along.