an to draw the barber-surgeon, Lord Farintosh resumed
the delightful talk. "What infernal bad glasses these are in these
Brighton lodging-houses! They make a man look quite green, really they
do--and there's nothing green in me, is there, Lady Anne?"

"But you look very unwell, Lord Farintosh; indeed you do," Miss Newcome
said, gravely. "I think late hours, and smoking, and going to that
horrid Platt's, where I dare say you go----"

"Go? Don't I? But don't call it horrid; really, now, don't call it
horrid!" cried the noble Marquis.

"Well--something has made you look far from well. You know how very
well Lord Farintosh used to look, mamma--and to see him now, in only his
second season--oh, it is melancholy!"

"God bless my soul, Miss Newcome! what do you mean? I think I look
pretty well," and the noble youth passed his hand through his hair.
"It is a hard life, I know; that tearin' about night after night, and
sittin' up till ever so much o'clock; and then all these races, you
know, comin' one after another--it's enough to knock up any fellow. I'll
tell you what I'll do, Miss Newcome. I'll go down to Codlington, to my
mother; I will, upon my honour, and lie quiet all July, and then I'll go
to Scotland--and you shall see whether I don't look better next season."

"Do, Lord Farintosh!" said Ethel, greatly amused, as much, perhaps, at
the young Marquis as at her cousin Clive, who sat whilst the other was
speaking, fuming with rage, at his table.

"What are you doing, Clive?" she asks.

"I was trying to draw; Lord knows who--Lord Newcome, who was killed at
the battle of Bosworth," said the artist, and the girl ran to look at
the picture.

"Why, you have made him like Punch!" cries the young lady.

"It's a shame caricaturing one's own flesh and blood, isn't it?" asked
Clive, gravely.

"What a droll, funny picture!" exclaims Lady Anne. "Isn't it capital,
Lord Farintosh?"

"I dare say--I confess I don't understand that sort of thing," says
his lordship. "Don't, upon my honour. There's Odo Carton, always making
those caricatures--I don't understand 'em. You'll come up to town
to-morrow, won't you? And you're goin' to Lady Hm's, and to Hm and Hm's,
ain't you?" (The names of these aristocratic places of resort were quite
inaudible.) "You mustn't let Miss Blackcap have it all her own way, you
know, that you mustn't."

"She won't have it all her own way," says Miss Ethel. "Lord Farintosh,
will you do me a favour? Lad