Carries the Reader both to Richmond and Greenwich

Poor Foker found the dinner at Richmond to be the most dreary
entertainment upon which ever mortal man wasted his guineas. "I wonder
how the deuce I could ever have liked these people," he thought in his
own mind. "Why, I can see the crow's-feet under Rougemont's eyes, and
the paint on her cheeks is laid on as thick as Clown's in a pantomime!
The way in which that Calverley talks slang, is quite disgusting. I hate
chaff in a woman. And old Colchicum! that old Col, coming down here
in his brougham, with his coronet on it, and sitting bodkin between
Mademoiselle Coralie and her mother! It's too bad. An English peer, and
a horse-rider of Franconi's!--It won't do; by Jove, it won't do. I ain't
proud; but it will not do!"

"Twopence-halfpenny for your thoughts, Fokey!" cried out Miss Rougemont,
taking her cigar from her truly vermilion lips, as she beheld the young
fellow lost in thought, seated at the head of his table, amidst melting
ices, and cut pineapples, and bottles full and empty, and cigar-ashes
scattered on fruit, and the ruins of a dessert which had no pleasure for
him.

"Does Foker ever think?" drawled out Mr. Poyntz. "Foker, here is a
considerable sum of money offered by a fair capitalist at this end
of the table for the present emanations of your valuable and acute
intellect, old boy!"

"What the deuce is that Poyntz a talking about?" Miss Calverley asked of
her neighbour. "I hate him. He's a drawlin', sneerin' beast."

"What a droll of a little man is that little Fokare, my lor',"
Mademoiselle Coralie said, in her own language, and with the rich twang
of that sunny Gascony in which her swarthy cheeks and bright black eyes
had got their fire. "What a droll of a man! He does not look to have
twenty years."

"I wish I were of his age," said the venerable Colchicum, with a sigh,
as he inclined his purple face towards a large goblet of claret.

"C'te Jeunesse. Peuh! je m'en fiche" said Madame Brack, Coralie's mamma,
taking a great pinch out of Lord Colchicum's delicate gold snuff-box.
"Je m'aime que les hommes faits, moi. Comme milor. Coralie! n'est-ce pas
que tu n'aimes que les hommes faits, ma bichette?"

My lord said, with a grin, "You flatter me, Madame Brack."

"Taisez-vous, Maman, vous n'etes qu'une bete," Coralie cried, with a
shrug of her robust shoulders; upon which, my lord said that she did
not flatter at any rate; and pocketed his snuff-box, n