ately rushing to their clubs to ascertain
the truth of this report. Popanilla was unfashionable enough to make
his acknowledgments to his hostess before he left her house. As he
gazed upon her ladyship's brilliant eyes and radiant complexion, he
felt convinced of the truth of her theory of the passions; he could not
refrain from pressing her hand in a manner which violated etiquette, and
which a nativity in the Indian Ocean could alone excuse; the pressure
was graciously returned. As Popanilla descended the staircase, he
discovered a little note of pink satin paper entangled in his ruffle.
He opened it with curiosity. It was 'All soul.' He did not return to his
hotel quite so soon as he expected.

CHAPTER 10

Popanilla breakfasted rather late the next morning, and on looking over
the evening papers, which were just published, his eyes lighted on the
following paragraph:--

'Arrived yesterday at the Hotel Diplomatique, His Excellency Prince
Popanilla, Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary from
the newly-recognised State of Fantaisie.'

Before his Excellency could either recover from his astonishment or make
any inquiries which might throw any illustration upon its cause, a
loud shout in the street made him naturally look out of the window. He
observed three or four magnificent equipages drawing up at the door of
the hotel, and followed by a large crowd. Each carriage was drawn by
four horses, and attended by footmen so radiant with gold and scarlet
that, had Popanilla been the late ingenious Mr. Keates, he would have
mistaken them for the natural children of Phoebus and Aurora. The
Ambassador forgot the irregularity of the paragraph in the splendour
of the liveries. He felt triumphantly conscious that the most beautiful
rose in the world must look extremely pale by the side of scarlet cloth;
and this new example of the superiority of art over nature reminding
him of the inferiority of bread-fruit to grilled muffin, he resolved to
return to breakfast.

But it was his fate to be reminded of the inutility of the best
resolutions, for ere the cup of coffee had touched his parched lips the
door of his room flow open, and the Marquess of Moustache was announced.

His Lordship was a young gentleman with an expressive countenance; that
is to say, his face was so covered with hair, and the back of his
head cropped so bald, that you generally addressed him in the rear by
mistake. He did not speak, but