went upstairs
to the drawing-room, Lady Thrum took occasion to say, "My dear, in
the course of your profession you will have to submit to many such
familiarities on the part of persons of low breeding, such as I fear Mr.
Slang is. But let me caution you against giving way to your temper
as you did. Did you not perceive that _I_ never allowed him to see my
inward dissatisfaction? And I make it a particular point that you should
be very civil to him to-night. Your interests--our interests depend upon
it."

"And are my interests to make me civil to a wretch like that?"

"Mrs. Walker, would you wish to give lessons in morality and behaviour
to Lady Thrum?" said the old lady, drawing herself up with great
dignity. It was evident that she had a very strong desire indeed to
conciliate Mr. Slang; and hence I have no doubt that Sir George was to
have a considerable share of Morgiana's earnings.

Mr. Bludyer, the famous editor of the Tomahawk, whose jokes Sir George
pretended to admire so much (Sir George who never made a joke in his
life), was a press bravo of considerable talent and no principle, and
who, to use his own words, would "back himself for a slashing article
against any man in England!" He would not only write, but fight on a
pinch; was a good scholar, and as savage in his manner as with his
pen. Mr. Squinny is of exactly the opposite school, as delicate as
milk-and-water, harmless in his habits, fond of the flute when the state
of his chest will allow him, a great practiser of waltzing and dancing
in general, and in his journal mildly malicious. He never goes beyond
the bounds of politeness, but manages to insinuate a great deal that is
disagreeable to an author in the course of twenty lines of criticism.
Personally he is quite respectable, and lives with two maiden aunts at
Brompton. Nobody, on the contrary, knows where Mr. Bludyer lives. He has
houses of call, mysterious taverns, where he may be found at particular
hours by those who need him, and where panting publishers are in the
habit of hunting him up. For a bottle of wine and a guinea he will write
a page of praise or abuse of any man living, or on any subject, or on
any line of politics. "Hang it, sir!" says he, "pay me enough and I will
write down my own father!" According to the state of his credit, he
is dressed either almost in rags or else in the extremest flush of the
fashion. With the latter attire he puts on a haughty and aristocratic
air, and wo