ather than of 'the Mould of Form'? Confess, Mr. Fielding, that the
women love not an early tippler, and that they expect sober and sweet
kisses from a pair 'of youngsters' like us."

"By the Lord," cried Mr. Fielding, stroking down his comely stomach,
"there is a great show of reason in thy excuses, but only the show, not
substance, my noble Count. You know me, you know my experience with the
women: I would not boast, as I'm a soldier; but 'tis something! nine
hundred and fifty locks of hair have I got in my strong box, under
padlock and key; fifty within the last week,--true, on my soul,--so that
I may pretend to know a little of the dear creatures; well, I give thee
my honour, Count, that they like a royster; they love a fellow who can
carry his six bottles under a silken doublet; there's vigour and manhood
in it; and, then, too, what a power of toasts can a six-bottle man
drink to his mistress! Oh, 'tis your only chivalry now,--your modern
substitute for tilt and tournament; true, Count, as I am a soldier!"

"I fear my Dulcinea differs from the herd, then; for she quarrelled with
me for supping with St. John three nights ago, and--"

"St. John," interrupted Fielding, cutting me off in the beginning of
a witticism, "St. John, famous fellow, is he not? By the Lord, we will
drink to his administration, you in chocolate, I in Madeira. O'Carroll,
you dog,--O'Carroll--rogue--rascal--ass--dolt!"

"The same, your honour," said the orange-coloured lacquey, thrusting in
his lean visage.

"Ay, the same indeed, thou anatomized son of Saint Patrick; why dost
thou not get fat? Thou shamest my good living, and thy belly is a
rascally minister to thee, devouring all things for itself, without
fattening a single member of the body corporate. Look at _me_, you dog,
am _I_ thin? Go and get fat, or I will discharge thee: by the Lord I
will! the sun shines through thee like an empty wineglass."

"And is it upon your honour's lavings you would have me get fat?"
rejoined Mr. O'Carroll, with an air of deferential inquiry.

"Now, as I live, thou art the impudentest varlet!" cried Mr. Fielding,
stamping his foot on the floor, with an angry frown.

"And is it for talking of your honour's lavings? an' sure that's
_nothing_ at all, at all," said the valet, twirling his thumbs with
expostulating innocence.

"Begone, rascal!" said Mr. Fielding, "begone; go to the Salop, and bring
us a pint of Madeira, a toast, and a dish of chocolate."