"What's that?" said Mr. Anthony Clare, a florid young gentleman on the opposite side of the table. "Blewforth!" he called out to a naval officer farther along. "Charles has forsook letters and is going to try life for a change." "Good G----," said the Lieutenant solemnly. "Charles crowding all canvas after a petticoat?" Charles looked somewhat disconcerted by this immediate perception of his motives. "I 'faith, you're in the wrong, Blewforth," he protested, "'tis to please Ripple and that's the whole truth of the matter." A roar of laughter greeted this excuse, and every young gentleman in hearing vowed to exchange dice for dancing on Monday night. "I saw Charles leave a note at a house in the Western Colonnade," remarked Ensign Chalkley of the Foot. "A Valentine for a hundred guineas," said Clare. "Name the charmer," shouted Blewforth, "name her, and egad, she shall be the toast of the afternoon." Mr. Vernon felt relieved. Somehow he had half suspected Lovely was in pursuit of Miss Courteen. If he had not decided to wear purple sattin on the day before and buried himself in the closet to extricate the suit, he would have been still more suspicious of Lovely. The latter ignored the friendly jeers. "Shall we say Wednesday night, Sir?" "I shall be honoured." "May I beg the favour of your name, Sir? 'Tis customary with us to elect our associates.' "My name is Vernon. Francis Vernon of the Crescent, Curtain Wells--and London." It was Charles' turn to display apprehension. Here was a man well dressed, of genteel appearance, living in the Crescent. "Ah! the Crescent! I once had a notion to lodge there myself." "'Tis a quiet position," said Vernon. "So much the better for my Muse." "You are a poet, Sir?" "I have a metrical fancy." "Try the Colonnade, Charles," bellowed the Lieutenant, "and your Muse'll speedily become the most famous Toast of the time." "Blewforth owns a spy-glass," said some one. "I wish he would own a mirrour," said Charles, "his wig is infamous." "His head is swollen since the w-war," stammered little Peter Wingfield, "or else he was w-wounded in the wig." Blewforth, impervious to smoaking, gave a loud guffaw. Lovely and Vernon agreed to meet on the following Wednesday and the conversation moved on general lines till the silver hammer of the Mayor summoned the company to attend to the toasts. The eyes of the room were on him as away up at the high table, he rose burly and majestick. "Mr. Alderman Jobbins," he proclaimed, "the King!" Mr. Jobbins, the youngest of the city fathers, blessed his sovereign with unctuous pride, and the toast was drunk amid acclamations whose echo was drowned in broken glass. Curtain Wells knew when to borrow from military manners. Then the assembly tilted on its chairs after filling new glasses, and composed itself to listen to Beau Ripple who had risen, monocle in hand.