hands elegantly white, nor unadorned with rings,--or lifting the weight of Samuel Dolly by the waistband, and holding him at arm’s length, with a playful bet of ten to one that he could stand by the fireplace and pitch the said Samuel Dolly out of the open window. To know so strong a man, so fine an animal, was something to boast of. Then, too, if Jasper had a false brilliancy, he had also a false bonhommie: it was true that he was somewhat imperious, swaggering, bullying; but he was also off-hand and jocund; and as you knew him, that sidelong look, that defying gait (look and gait of the man whom the world cuts), wore away. In fact, he had got into a world which did not cut him, and his exterior was improved by the atmosphere. Mr. Losely professed to dislike general society. Drawing rooms were insipid; clubs full of old fogies. “I am for life, my boys,” said Mr. Losely, “‘Can sorrow from the goblet flow, Or pain from Beauty’s eye?’” Mr. Losely, therefore, his hat on one side, lounged into the saloons of theatres, accompanied by a cohort of juvenile admirers, their hats on one side also, and returned to the pleasantest little suppers in his own apartment. There “the goblet” flowed; and after the goblet, cigars for some, and a rubber for all. So puissant Losely’s vitality, and so blest by the stars his luck, that his form seemed to wax stronger and his purse fuller by this “life.” No wonder he was all for a life of that kind; but the slight beings who tried to keep up with him grew thinner and thinner, and poorer and poorer; a few weeks made their cheeks spectral and their pockets a dismal void. Then as some dropped off from sheer inanition, others whom they had decoyed by their praises of “Life” and its hero came into the magic circle to fade and vanish in their turn. In a space of time incredibly brief, not a whist-player was left upon the field: the victorious Losely had trumped out the last; some few whom Nature had endowed more liberally than Fortune still retained strength enough to sup--if asked; “But none who came to sup remained to play.” “Plague on it,” said Losely to Poole, as one afternoon they were dividing the final spoils, “your friends are mightily soon cleaned out: could not even get up double dummy last night; and we must hit on some new plan for replenishing the coffers. You have rich relations; can’t I help you to make them more useful?” Said Dolly Poole, who was looking exceedingly bilious, and had become a martyr to chronic headache, “My relations are prigs! Some of them give me the cold shoulder, others--a great deal of jaw. But as for tin, I might as well scrape a flint for it. My uncle Sam is more anxious about my sins than the other codgers, because he is my godfather, and responsible for my sins, I suppose; and he says he will put me in the way of being respectable. My head’s splitting--”