t the
door of the club? You'll know it again. It is Sir Hugh Trumpington's;
he was never known to walk in his life; never appears in the streets on
foot--never: and if he is going two doors off, to see his mother, the
old dowager (to whom I shall certainly introduce you, for she receives
some of the best company in London), gad, sir--he mounts his horse at
No. 23, and dismounts again at No. 25 A. He is now upstairs, at Bays's,
playing picquet with Count Punter: he is the second-best player in
England--as well he may be; for he plays every day of his life, except
Sundays (for Sir Hugh is an uncommonly religious man) from half-past
three till half-past seven, when he dresses for dinner.

"A very pious manner of spending his time," Pen said, laughing and
thinking that his uncle was falling into the twaddling state.

"Gad, sir, that is not the question. A man of his estate may employ his
time as he chooses. When you are a baronet, a county member, with
ten thousand acres of the best land in Cheshire, and such a place as
Trumpington (though he never goes there), you may do as you like."

"And so that was his brougham, sir, was it?" the nephew said with almost
a sneer.

"His brougham--O ay, yes!--and that brings me back to my point--revenons
a nos moutons. Yes, begad! revenons a nous moutons. Well, that brougham
is mine if I choose, between four and seven. Just as much mine as if I
jobbed it from Tilbury's, begad, for thirty pound a month. Sir Hugh is
the best natured fellow in the world; and if it hadn't been so fine an
afternoon as it is, you and I would have been in that brougham at
this very minute on our way to Grosvenor Place. That is the benefit of
knowing rich men;--I dine for nothing, sir;--I go into the country, and
I'm mounted for nothing. Other fellows keep hounds and gamekeepers for
me. Sic vos, non vobis, as we used to say at Grey Friars, hey? I'm of
the opinion of my old friend Leech, of the Forty-fourth; and a devilish
good shrewd fellow he was, as most Scotchmen are. Gad, sir, Leech used
to say, 'He was so poor that he couldn't afford to know a poor man.'"

"You don't act up to your principles, uncle," Pen said good-naturedly.

"Up to my principles; how, sir?" the Major asked, rather testily.

"You would have cut me in Saint James's Street, sir," Pen said, "were
your practice not more benevolent than your theory; you who live with
dukes and magnates of the land, and would take no notice of a poor devil