By the tone, the words seemed rather an inquiry as to what wind would be kind enough to blow me back again. But he recovered his self-possession in a moment. "Delighted to see you! Where's your portmanteau? Oh--left it at the Bull! Ah! I see. Very well, we'll send the gyp for it in a minute, and order some luncheon. We're just going down to the boat-race. Sorry I can't stop, but we shall all be fined--not a moment to lose. I'll send you in luncheon as I go through the butteries; then, perhaps, you'd like to come down and see the race. Ask the gyp to tell you the way. Now, then, follow your noble captain, gentlemen--to glory and a supper." And he bustled out with his crew. While I was staring about the room, at the jumble of Greek books, boxing-gloves, and luscious prints of pretty women, a shrewd-faced, smart man entered, much better dressed than myself. "What would you like, sir? Ox-tail soup, sir, or gravy-soup, sir? Stilton cheese, sir, or Cheshire, sir? Old Stilton, sir, just now." Fearing lest many words might betray my rank--and, strange to say, though I should not have been afraid of confessing myself an artisan before the "gentlemen" who had just left the room, I was ashamed to have my low estate discovered, and talked over with his compeers, by the flunkey who waited on them--I answered, "Anything--I really don't care," in as aristocratic and off-hand a tone as I could assume. "Porter or ale, sir?" "Water," without a "thank you," I am ashamed to say for I was not at that time quite sure whether it was well-bred to be civil to servants. The man vanished, and reappeared with a savoury luncheon, silver forks, snowy napkins, smart plates--I felt really quite a gentleman.