her hand out of the carriage. Canaillard departs, asking the way to
"Lesterre Squar." They all go away--life goes away.

Look at Miss Martin and young Ward! How tenderly the rogue is wrapping
her up! how kindly she looks at him! The old folks are whispering behind
as they wait for their carriage. What is their talk, think you? and when
shall that pair make a match? When you see those pretty little creatures
with their smiles and their blushes, and their pretty ways, would you
like to be the Grand Bashaw?

"Mind and send me a large piece of cake," I go up and whisper archly to
old Mr. Ward: and we look on rather sentimentally at the couple, almost
the last in the rooms (there, I declare, go the musicians, and the clock
is at five)--when Grundsell, with an air effare, rushes up to me and
says, "For e'v'n sake, sir, go into the supper-room: there's that Hirish
gent a-pitchin' into Mr. P."

THE MULLIGAN AND MR. PERKINS.

It was too true. I had taken him away after supper (he ran after Miss
Little's carriage, who was dying in love with him as he fancied), but
the brute had come back again. The doctors of divinity were putting up
their condiments: everybody was gone; but the abominable Mulligan sat
swinging his legs at the lonely supper-table!

Perkins was opposite, gasping at him.

The Mulligan.--I tell ye, ye are the butler, ye big fat man. Go get me
some more champagne: it's good at this house.

Mr. Perkins (with dignity).--It IS good at this house; but--

The Mulligan.--Bht hwhat, ye goggling, bow-windowed jackass? Go get the
wine, and we'll dthrink it together, my old buck.

Mr. Perkins.--My name, sir, is PERKINS.

The Mulligan.--Well, that rhymes with jerkins, my man of firkins; so
don't let us have any more shirkings and lurkings, Mr. Perkins.

Mr. Perkins (with apoplectic energy).--Sir, I am the master of this
house; and I order you to quit it. I'll not be insulted, sir. I'll send
for a policeman, sir. What do you mean, Mr. Titmarsh, sir, by bringing
this--this beast into my house, sir?

At this, with a scream like that of a Hyrcanian tiger, Mulligan of the
hundred battles sprang forward at his prey; but we were beforehand with
him. Mr. Gregory, Mr. Grundsell, Sir Giles Bacon's large man, the young
gentlemen, and myself, rushed simultaneously upon the tipsy chieftain,
and confined him. The doctors of divinity looked on with perfect
indifference. That Mr. Perkins did not go off in a fit is a wonder. He