satisfactory to either party. Pen
was sulky. If Bows had anything on his mind, he did not care to deliver
himself of his thoughts in the presence of Captain Costigan, who
remained in the apartment during the whole of Pen's visit; having
quitted his bedchamber, indeed, but a very few minutes before the
arrival of that gentleman. We have witnessed the deshahille of Major
Pendennis: will any man wish to be valet-de-chambre to our other hero,
Costigan? It would seem that the Captain, before issuing from his
bedroom, scented himself with otto-of-whisky. A rich odour of that
delicious perfume breathed from out him, as he held out the grasp of
cordiality to his visitor. The hand which performed that grasp shook
wofully: it was a wonder how it could hold the razor with which the poor
gentleman daily operated on his chin.

Bows's room was as neat, on the other hand, as his comrade's was
disorderly. His humble wardrobe hung behind a curtain. His books and
manuscript music were trimly arranged upon shelves. A lithographed
portrait of Miss Fotheringay, as Mrs. Haller, with the actress's
sprawling signature at the corner, hung faithfully over the old
gentleman's bed. Lady Mirabel wrote much better than Miss Fotheringay
had been able to do. Her Ladyship had laboured assiduously to acquire
the art of penmanship since her marriage; and, in a common note of
invitation or acceptance, acquitted herself very genteelly. Bows loved
the old handwriting best, though; the fair artist's earlier manner.
He had but one specimen of the new style, a note in reply to a song
composed and dedicated to Lady Mirabel, by her most humble servant
Robert Bows; and which document was treasured in his desk amongst his
other state papers. He was teaching Fanny Bolton now to sing and to
write, as he had taught Emily in former days. It was the nature of the
man to attach himself to something. When Emily was torn from him he took
a substitute: as a man looks out for a crutch when he loses a leg; or
lashes himself to a raft when he has suffered shipwreck. Latude had
given his heart to a woman, no doubt, before he grew to be so fond of a
mouse in the Bastille. There are people who in their youth have felt and
inspired an heroic passion, and end by being happy in the caresses,
or agitated by the illness of a poodle. But it was hard upon Bows, and
grating to his feelings as a man and a sentimentalist, that he should
find Pen again upon his track, and in pursuit of thi