as talking with some energy to Thornton (who lounged idly in his chair,
with one ungartered leg thrown over the elbow.)

"Ah, Mr. Pelham," exclaimed the latter, starting from his not very
graceful position, "it gives me great pleasure to see you--Mr.
Warburton, Mr. Pelham--Mr. Pelham, Mr. Warburton." My new-made and
mysterious acquaintance drew himself up to his full height, and bowed
very slightly to my own acknowledgment of the introduction. A low person
would have thought him rude. I only supposed him ignorant of the
world. No real gentleman is uncivil. He turned round after this stiff
condescension de sa part, and sunk down on the sofa, with his back
towards me.

"I was mistaken," thought I, "when I believed him to be above such
associates as Thornton--they are well matched."

"My dear Sir," said Thornton, "I am very sorry I could not see you to
breakfast--a particular engagement prevented me--verbum sap. Mr. Pelham,
you take me, I suppose--black eyes white skin, and such an ancle;" and
the fellow rubbed his great hands and chuckled.

"Well," said I, "I cannot blame you, whatever may be my loss--a dark eye
and a straight ancle are powerful excuses. What says Mr. Warburton to
them?" and I turned to the object of my interrogatory.

"Really," he answered drily, and without moving from his uncourteous
position, "Mr. Thornton only can judge of the niceties of his peculiar
tastes, or the justice of his general excuses."

Mr. Warburton said this in a sarcastic, bitter tone. Thornton bit his
lip, more, I should think, at the manner than the words, and his small
grey eyes sparkled with a malignant and stern expression, which suited
the character of his face far better than the careless levity and
enjouement which his glances usually denoted.

"They are no such great friends after all," thought I; "and now let me
change my attack. Pray," I asked, "among all your numerous acquaintances
at Paris, did you ever meet with a Mr. Tyrrell?"

Warburton started from his chair, and as instantly re-seated himself.
Thornton eyed me with one of those peculiar looks which so strongly
reminded me of a dog, in deliberation whether to bite or run away.

"I do know a Mr. Tyrrell!" he said, after a short pause.

"What sort of a person is he?" I asked with an indifferent air--"a great
gamester, is he not?"

"He does slap it down on the colours now and then," replied Thornton. "I
hope you don't know him, Mr. Pelham!"

"Why?" said I,